The Only Good Vampire
by Evilida
Summary: When Buffy cleans up after the Initiative closes up their facility, she discovers chipped Spike. Not knowing what to do with him, she calls on Angel to help his grand-childe.
1. The Only Good Demon

The Sunnydale operation was over. It had been a resounding success. Dozens of demon entities had been identified, studied and dissected, and the knowledge gained was being used by the military to make its fighting men and women better and stronger soldiers. Riley's excellent performance throughout the operation had been noted by his superior officers, who had decided he was ready to command his own mission. He had been sent, with very little notice, on a top secret mission to the Maldives. This had meant, of course, that he would be on the other side of the world from his girlfriend Buffy, but in any case he had the sense that their relationship had come to a natural end. He felt great affection for her, but he could not see her as a military wife any more than he could see himself as a Slayer's husband. They parted as friends, knowing that they would always be able to rely on each other.

A few months after he left town, Riley telephoned Buffy. He had a favour to ask of her.

"I need you to go into the Initiative's facility in Sunnydale and make sure everything's okay," he said. "There was a bureaucratic mix-up and Arkwright, the officer in charge, was transferred before the decommissioning was complete. Someone was supposed to replace him, but those orders never came through."

"According to Arkwright all the specimens are secure and that all confidential documents have been shredded," Riley said. "He took care of that before he left. But it sounds like nobody has been to check up on the specimens since his transfer."

"By specimens," Buffy said, "you mean demons?"

Riley was on an encrypted military line but Buffy was not. Riley sighed at his ex-girlfriend's casual disregard of military protocol.

"Yes. They've been left without food or water for more than a month. Most of the specimens will be dead by now, but there are a few particularly hardy strains that could have survived. If they are any still alive, they'll be very hungry and very angry. Any survivors will be very dangerous, and I need someone with your kind of experience to clean things up properly and dispose of all the specimens."

"Angry, hungry demons, gotcha," Buffy replied.

"I'm sending you all the details by secure courier. Obviously, this is top secret – for your eyes only. I'm trusting you the way I'd trust one of my own men. I know you won't let me down.'

Being a Slayer, Buffy had found, required some delegation. She couldn't do everything, so she concentrated on the slaying part and left things like reading reports, performing spells and acquiring demon knowledge to the Scoobies.

"Ooh," said Anya excitedly, reading classified military secrets over Willow's shoulder, "They've got a Pyrankha demon. If it's still alive, we should cut out its liver. We can sell fresh Pyrankha liver for a hundred dollars an ounce at the magic store."

"Is there anything there we should be concerned about?" Buffy asked.

"Nothing we can't handle," Willow said confidently. "Just the usual vampires and a few minor demons."

She scanned the pages quickly.

"Oh wait," she said, "this looks interesting. It's a description of one of the vampires they picked up – bleached blond hair, blue eyes, London accent. They've got Spike."

Xander smiled, "Does that mean we get to kill Spike? Say yes, please say yes!"

"According to this," Willow said, "the Initiative performed an experiment on him. They planted a chip in his head that makes him unable to attack people."

"So we get to take down Spike, and the vamp can't fight back," Xander said.

"I don't quite understand," Willow said. "Why go to all the trouble of planting a chip in a vampire when it would be so much easier just to stake them?"

No one had an answer to that one.

"Your government dollars at work," Xander said shrugging. "The important thing is that we get to kill Spike."

The air in the Initiative's underground facility was stale; the ventilation system and the lights had been turned off when the last soldier left. Their was a rank odor – the stench of demons (usually sulphuric or sourly acidic depending on species) and rotting flesh on top of the lingering scents of gun oil, boot polish and the manly sweat of soldiers. Following the map Riley had provided, the Scoobies went it to the command centre where Anya managed to figure out how to turn on the lights and ventilation. The command centre was scrupulously tidy, a model of functional efficiency, although a thin layer of dust lay over all the room's surfaces. The keys to the cells were on a neatly labelled hook. The only decorative item in the room was a hand-lettered poster thumb tacked to the wall. It read "The only good demon is a dead demon _."_

They waited outside the facility. for the ventilation system to do its work. The poor air quality had made the humans feel sick and dizzy after only a few minutes of exposure, and they needed to be in good physical shape to deal with any of the demons that might still be lurking in the facility's cells.

After the air had cleared, the Scoobies went back inside. All of them were carrying weapons, except for Anya, who was carrying a cooler loaded with ice. The demons in the first few cells were already dead. Anya identified them as a Varoshta and a G'Braith.

"No market value," she said, examining the corpse of the Varoshta demon. "If it was in better condition, we could sell its pelt but look at this. There's these marks. Little round circular holes..."

"Cigarette burns," Willow said. "Someone was burning it with a cigarette. What kind of experiments did they do here?"

"Hey, let's not get all soft-hearted about the poor demons," Xander said. "I bet this Varoshta thing had it coming. Remember that it was a demon invading our realm before we all get all mushy."

"More a refugee than an invader," Anya said, stroking the dead demon's fur. "Their realm is being taken over by the Tanakai, and those are guys you really don't want to meet in a dark alley. In this realm, the Varoshta usually live in the sewers and eat rats. Sometimes the odd stray cat or lost puppy. They're kind of shy."

"See, evil puppy-eating demon," Xander said, sounding slightly less sure of himself.

The Scoobies walked past more than a dozen cells, at least half of which were occupied by dead demons in various states of putrefaction. The smell was appalling, and prevented Anya or Willow from getting close enough to any of the bodies to make a proper species identification.

"Could any of those be Spike?" Buffy asked.

"Don't think so. None of them are the right size and shape. Besides when vampires die all that is left is a pile of ashes. Maybe they kept the vampires in their own cellblock." Willow said.

Deep in the underground facility, the Scoobies found a live demon. Anya was thrilled to identify it as a Pyrankha. It was small demon about the size of a collie, with emerald coloured eyes that glowed in the dim confines of it cell. The dead bodies of rats neatly piled in a corner of the cell showed how the demon had survived.

"Watch out," Anya warned. "It spits acid."

The creature, however, was too weak to do anything more than bare its sharp yellow teeth. Anya dispatched it quickly and then gutted it. She removed the liver and placed it in the cooler.

"It's not in great condition," she said, looking at the piece of demon organ meat. "I'll be lucky if I can sell it at half price."

Buffy was eager for this disappointing mission to be over. She looked at Riley's map.

"Only one more unit of cells," she said," and then we can go home."

The last unit had housed the vampires. A vampire, crazed by thirst and months of isolation, staggered to the bars of its cell and reached for the Slayer. Buffy put a stake through the mad thiing's heart.

"Buffy," Willow called from down the corrider. "I think this one is Spike."

Willow's doubt was understandable. The occupant of the cell was barely recognizable. His hair was an unkempt mess of greasy light brown curls and he had the kind of patchy, straggly facial hair possessed by those who were never intended by Nature to have a beard. He was naked and filthy. Dried rivulets of caked blood painted his chest and ran down his back and his legs.

"Is he alive?" Buffy asked.

"Well, he's not a heap of ashes," Willow said, "so I assume he's alive, or at least not dead."

"I knew he dyed his hair," Xander said.

"Well, duh," said Willow.

Buffy unlocked the door and knelt down by the unconscious vampire.

"Riley said to dispose of all the specimens," Buffy said uncertainly.

"But he's got that chip, right?" Willow said," So he's not dangerous anymore."

"I can't leave him here," Buffy said. "That would be more cruel than killing him. And I'm not going to take him home and nurse him back to health because he's already obsessed with me, and playing Florence Nightengale would just make it worse. Besides chipped or not, I'm not letting him near Dawn."

"You've got to kill him then," Xander said sombrely. "There's no other choice."

Spike's eyes opened. He focused on the Slayer. With great difficulty he managed to whisper a word.

"Angel," he said.


	2. The Suffering of Innocents

Charles Gunn slung the bag he was carrying into the back of a white van. The vehicle belonged to a friend of his, and it smelled strongly of ganja, even with both windows wide open. There was a mattress covered in a plastic sheet in the back of the van. He took his place in the driver's seat.

"I joined up to dust vampires not to chauffeur them around," Gunn grumbled to his passenger.

Wesley Wyndham-Price nodded his agreement. He also was not looking forward to visiting Sunnydale. The town had been the site of his greatest and most humiliating defeat. He had failed as a Watcher, and nothing that he could do would ever erase that stain from his record. Of course, he hardly needed a road trip to remind himself of his inadequacy. Not when he had a disappointed father who performed that service perfectly well.

Cordelia Chase was the only person employed by Angel Investigations who actually looked forward to a day over the Hellmouth. Cordy had fond memories of her reign as unofficial queen of Sunnydale High. Despite the odd demon attack and the necessity of staving off the occasional Apocalypse, her life had been so much simpler then.

Since leaving Sunnydale, Cordelia had been given the dubious gift of visions. Yes, the visions helped Angel and his crew avert demonic atrocities, but they also gave Cordelia severe headaches that left her feeling weak and nauseated for days. Cordy was currently lying on a couch in the offices of Angel Investigations, with a wet facecloth covering her eyes and a bucket at her side in case she needed to vomit. This was hardly the glamourous L.A. life she had envisioned for herself when she left Sunnydale.

Wesley had been roped in to take her place. Cordy had made him promise to fill her in on all the gossip when they got back. She was especially eager to get his impression of Anya, the former vengeance demon who was now Xander's girlfriend.

Just as they were leaving, Angel darted out of the doorway of the Hyperion Hotel. He was carrying a blanket over his head to protect against the sun. The vampire ran to the van, pulled open the back door, leaped in, and slammed the door behind him.

"Thought you were sitting this one out," Gunn said.

"I changed my mind," the vampire said. "I decided I should see this demon holding pen for myself."

"Perhaps you want to see Spike," Wesley suggested mildly. "That would be natural; you are his sire after all."

"Dru was his sire," Angel corrected.

"So you're like his grandfather?" Gunn asked.

"Only sort of," Angel said. "Vampire families aren't quite like human ones. Actually, I wasn't very happy when Dru turned Spike."

"Why not?" Gunn asked.

"Spike was Angelus's punishment for screwing up with Dru."

"Come again?" Gunn asked. "How did Angelus screw up?"

Angel said, "Before she became a vampire, Drusilla was a nun. She was famous across Europe for her piety and for her visions. Dru was a holy innocent with the gift of prophecy. It was Darla's idea to make her one of us. Turning a living saint into a vampire was a major coup, but the visions were what she really wanted. Darla was always planning ahead."

Wesley turned around to look at Angel. He knew the circumstances of Drusilla's turning. The vampire attack had been horrific enough to appal even the jaded sensibilities of the Watchers, and their account of the event in the annals was unusually detailed. However, Wesley was interested of hearing the story in Angel`s own words.

"Because her childe had always taken particular pleasure in the suffering of innocents, Darla let Angelus have the honour of siring Drusilla. Angelus denounced her God, defiled the convent`s chapel and raped and murdered the other nuns in front of her. He tortured her until she went mad. Then he turned her."

Angel`s voice broke then, recalling what he had done.

"Drusilla was out of her wits when Angelus sired her, and she never recovered them. She still has the gift of second sight, but now her visions are mixed up with nursery rhymes and childish nonsense. It's impossible to tell a genuine prophesy from her usual ravings.

Darla was furious, of course. Angelus should have been more patient; he should have waited until after he turned her before sacking the convent. Vampires are resilient; they can survive the kind of traumas that destroy humans.

Vampires never forgive a mistake and they never forget. It was years before Darla found the perfect way to make Angelus pay for his carelessness. William wasn't a saint, and he'd never taken religious orders, but he was pure in his own way. He was a virgin. A dutiful son. A terrible poet who believed in love.

Darla convinced Dru to sire him. Angelus wasn't allowed to touch him. That was our punishment. Angelus had to watch his witless childe do what he had not been able to do. He was forced to witness William's corruption, without being allowed to take part in it."

"You said 'our'. 'Our' punishment," Wesley said.

"I meant his. I meant Angelus, of course."

"Of course," Wesley echoed.

Following the detailed directions Buffy had provided, Angel, Gun and Wesley made their way into the Initiative's headquarters located underneath UC Sunnydale. Although the ventilation system was going full-blast, the rank smell of dead and decaying demons filled the air. The two humans donned protective white masks. Xander, also wearing a mask, was waiting for them by the door. He lead them through a dimly lit warren of corridors, each leading to a seemingly endless series of cells. It seemed that they had walked for miles before they finally reached the cellblock that housed Spike.

"I tried to clean him up a bit," Xander explained, "but there isn't any running water down here so I had to use wet naps. I used a whole box but it didn't do much good. I got some clothes for him at the thrift shop too."

Anya was sitting on a lawn chair in front of one of the cells. She too was wearing a mask and she had surrounded herself with a half dozen air fresheners. There was a cup of blood on the floor by her feet.

"We tried feeding him," Anya said. "I got pig's blood from the butcher shop. I told him the butcher that I was making blood pudding.

Spike doesn't seem to keep anything down though. I feed him a spoonful of blood and he just spits it up again. I told Xander that maybe we should try cow's blood. Maybe Spike's allergic to pig."

She stepped aside, giving the three men their first look at Spike.

"Damn," Gunn said under his breath. "He does not look good."

Angel knelt down in front of the emaciated vampire. Spike opened his eyes but he didn't seem to be focusing on anything in particular. Angel wasn't sure whether Spike even knew he was there.

"Give me that cup, will you?" he asked Gunn.

Gunn handed him the cup. Angel dipped one of his fingers into the blood and then put his finger into Spike's mouth.

"Come on, William," he said, encouraging the other vampire. "Drink up."

After a moment, Angel got to his feet.

"He can't swallow," he said. "He needs a doctor."

"I've never heard of a doctor for a vampire," Xander said doubtfully. "Don't vampires just heal themselves?"

"Usually," Wesley confirmed, "but I think Spike is too far gone at this point."

"He's not too far gone!" Angel said. "We'll take Spike back to L.A. and then will get him a doctor. One who knows about vampires."

"The Host would know who to call," Gunn said.

Angel knelt down again to pick up Spike. The other vampire was just a skeleton held together by skin and sinew. The sweatpants and t-shirt Xander had purchased for him were much too big, hanging off his emaciated frame, and they were already stained with dirt and blood.

"Okay, William," Angel said. "We're going home."


	3. A Vampire's Promise

Angel wrapped Spike up in the blanket he had been using to protect himself from the sun. Then he picked him up and headed down the long network of corridors that eventually led out of the complex. Gunn walked beside him, carrying the cup of pig's blood that Anya had insisted they take with them. Wesley hung back to talk with the Scoobies.

"The research that the Initiative was doing could be very valuable in our work," he said. "Were you able to find any papers or documents?"

Xander shook his head.

"We looked around but didn't find anything. No computers, no filing cabinets. I guess the whole place was wiped clean before they left."

Anya said, "That's what I thought, but then Willow and I were exploring and we found this."

She led Xander and Wesley down another corridor to a closed elevator door. A helpful sign near the door listed the offices found on the lower floor – the Dissection and Autopsy Room, Testing Laboratories, and Records Facility.

Wesley almost salivated at the thought of rummaging through the Records Facility. There would be real, scientifically-gathered data about demons – not myth or supposition – and written in English rather than ancient Sumerian or some unholy demon tongue that had to be carefully deciphered. Eagerly he pressed the button on the elevator. Nothing happened.

"Where are the stairs?"

"There are no stairs," Anya said, "and we can't get the elevator to work. There are three different levels of security that would have to be bypassed to get in. There's a magic lock, and Willow's working on it but she said it's fiendishly tricky. But there's also a biometric lock that links to your fingerprint and your retinal image and things like that, and a mechanical lock too. Willow said you have to be a hacker, and a witch, and a safecracker to get in, and she's only two out of the three."

"We could drill through the floor," Wesley said. "We'll rent a jackhammer."

"We could do that, but there's an alarm system," Anya said. "It floods the entire facility with caustic gas and sends a whole platoon of army guys to kill the intruders."

"Then we just have to bypass that alarm."

Anya shook her head. She was about to explain why they couldn't bypass the alarm when Xander spoke up.

"Give it up," he said. "If it could be done, my Anya would have done it."

"That vampire, Spike, might know what was going on," Anya said. "That is, if they bothered to tell the prisoners, which they probably didn't. And if you can get Spike well enough to talk. Assuming, of course, that he's still sane enough to make sense."

"What do you mean, assuming he's still sane?"

Xander said, "Some of the testing they did was pretty brutal. Riley sent Buffy some documents about what this facility. It was designed to do resilience and performance testing."

"Basically," Anya said, "they were seeing how much they could endure before they broke. The researchers sprayed them with acid, immersed them in boiling water, that sort of thing. Like what cosmetic companies do to bunnies."

"When their research subjects died, the Initiative's scientists would dissect them to see how they worked," Xander said.

"Except for the vampires," Anya said. "You can't dissect vampires because a dead vampire is just dust. They had to vivisect them."

"Like pithed frogs in biology class," Xander added.

"Did Buffy know that this was going on?" Wesley asked. He looked slightly sick.

Xander shook his head.

"She still doesn't know anything about it. Riley didn't tell her, and Buffy didn't actually read the documents he sent her. Willow and Anya read them."

"Willow's going to tell her, but she's waiting for the right moment. Buffy's kind of heart-broken at the moment," Anya explained. "Willow says it would upset her to find out Riley was running a torture chamber behind her back."

"But, hey," Xander said, "at least he was only torturing demons. The Initiative wasn't doing anything to them that they wouldn't do to us, or to each other."

"Would you ask Willow to fax me a set of the documents?" Wesley said, "I'll gladly reimburse her the cost of the fax."

He handed Xander an Angel Investigations business card, with their phone and fax numbers.

Angel stopped short at the door of the facility, looking out into the bright California sunshine. He couldn't carry Spike and hold the blanket over his head at the same time.

"Would you carry Spike out to the van for me?" he asked Gunn "He's not very heavy."

"It's not his weight I'm worried about," Gunn grumbled, taking the vampire into his arms.

"If you so much as move your head in the direction of my neck, I'm going to whip this blanket off you and let the sun fry you like a side-order of bacon," he whispered in Spike's ear.

Spike didn't say anything or nod his agreement – but then he couldn't talk, and Gunn had just told him not to move his head.

There was an awkward moment where Gunn had to open the door of the van while carrying Spike; then he dumped the vampire on the floor of the van, unwrapped him, and returned to give the blanket to Angel. Angel ran to the back of the van, holding the blanket over his head. Just as Gunn was starting the van, Wesley came out to join them.

"Sorry, " he said. " I just wanted a few words with Xander and Anya."

"Sussing out Anya for Cordy? So is the former vengeance demon good enough for Cordy's ex?"

"I think rather better than he deserves, actually," Wesley said, climbing in and shutting the van's door. "If he's lucky, he'll figure that out before she does."

Spike opened his eyes. He was in a small confined space, and he could hear the sound of some kind of motor and feel its vibrations. Was this another of their tests? Spike wasn't afraid of anything that he could fight, but he couldn't fight the Initiative. He couldn't fight the guards, who regularly came into his cell to "teach him a lesson", and he couldn't fight the scientists, who dispassionately recorded his responses to extreme levels of pain and physical distress.

When he saw Angel sitting on the floor next to him, Spike calmed down. Angel might kill him since it was his business to kill vampires, but he wouldn't torture him. (The opposite had been true of Angelus, who would gladly have tortured him – if Darla had let him – but would never have killed him.)

Angel, however, did not seem in the mood to kill Spike just yet. Angel leaned forward, sweeping away the unwashed, greasy curls covering the younger vampire's forehead so that he could look into his eyes.

"Good, you're awake," he said. "I'm taking you back with me to L.A. I'm going to get a doctor to look you over. We're going to fatten you up until you're healthy again.

In return, you have to do exactly what I tell you. No lies. No games. No trying to undermine Angel Investigations from within. Otherwise, I won't protect you anymore and all your enemies can take turns beating your ass while you're too weak to defend yourself. I'll stand in line with them myself.

I'm not going to ask you to promise to obey me because I know exactly how much a vampire's promise is worth. Just nod to let me know you understand."

Spike nodded.

"Good," Angel said. He dipped his finger into the cup of pig's blood and then put his finger into his own mouth.

"Ugh," he said to Spike. "No wonder they couldn't get you to drink. Pig's blood isn't all that great to begin with, and when it's cold..."

He put out his hand.

"Here, bite me."

Spike looked up at him, distrustfully.

"No, this is not a trick," Angel said. "I talked to Willow on the phone, and I know your chip only stops you from attacking human beings. The Initiative couldn't care less about what demons and vampires do to each other. I'm a vampire, so you can bite me. Just this once, of course, because I'm giving you permission."

Spike hesitated for a moment, and then bit down hard. Angel thought he could hear a crunching sound, and thought for a second of all the delicate bones in his hand. Then Spike was coughing, sputtering, spraying Angel's blood all over his rescuer's clean white shirt.

"Okay," Angel said ruefully. "You can still bite like a Rottweiler, but we have to work on the swallowing part."

He nursed his hand for a moment, and then held it out again.

"Maybe just lick the blood for now. Don't gulp."

The sun had set by the time they arrived at the Hyperion. When Gunn and Wesley opened the door to the van, Angel was sitting cross-legged on the floor of the van. Spike was sound asleep, his head on Angel's lap, with Angel's hand in his mouth. He was sucking on it the way a sleeping child might suck his thumb.

Wesley frowned at this pretty tableau. Although he denied it, Angel obviously still had a lingering affection for Dru's childe. Spike, being the soulless vampire that he was, would obviously try to take advantage of that affection. Wesley sighed, recognizing the task ahead of him. His first priority was to get Spike back on his feet and out of Angel's life as quickly as possible, before he could cause too much trouble.

"I'll call the Host and see about getting Spike a doctor," Wesley said, turning away and walking into the building.

Gunn followed him into the hotel, leaving Angel to cope with Spike.

"What do the Watchers have to say about Spike?" he asked.

"Quite a bit," Wesley said. "He got the nickname Spike from the weapon he used to kill his earliest victims. Others call him William the Bloody. He's a risk taker with a particular fondness for hunting Slayers. He's killed at least two, along with several of their Watchers. That activity has, of course, brought him to the attention of the Council. They would dearly like his head. I believe that there even might be some kind of bounty involved."

"So Angel Investigations is going to be protecting this killer vamp from the Watchers?"

"Presumably, if they find out that he's here."

Gunn frowned. "Damn, I am beginning to regret joining this organization."


	4. Vampire Famiies are the Worst

The Host had seen Dr. Rajinder Dhaliwal hanging around Caritas a few times. The doctor, house physician for the law firm of Wolfram and Hart, was invariably accompanied by a Gaurog demon. The doctor was an ordinary-looking human in early middle age. The only odd thing about him was his eyes: they were a beautiful, clear blue, like the eyes of a Siamese cat. Also like a cat's eyes, they reflected light so that they seemed to glow in the dark. The Gaurog demon was six and a half feet tall and solidly built. The demon was a cylindrical column of muscle who could barely squeeze through the night club's doors. He hid his vestigial horn plates under a baseball cap and wore a long coat that covered his tail. Strangely, the Gaurog had the same unusual eyes as the doctor.

Dr Dhaliwal had never confided in the Host, but Lorne could see that the physician had problems. He'd sit at the table, knocking back whiskey and casting an aura of gloom and melancholy that was bad for business.

When Wesley had phoned him up asking for a doctor who treated vampires, the Host had immediately thought of Dhaliwal. It was Angel's business to help the helpless and Dhaliwal looked like he could use some help. Bringing the two together was the Host's good deed for the day.

Though the Hyperion Hotel had many rooms, few of them were fit for habitation. Most of the rooms were empty, and whatever furniture was left was there only because it wasn't worth anyone's while to carry it away. Room 212 was better than most. It had a bed, a chest of drawers, a working light fixture complete with 40- Watt bulb, and running water in the bathroom. A broken air conditioner filled the bottom half of the window; the top half was covered by a threadbare curtain in a shade of orange that had last been popular in the early seventies. There was even a television which, surprisingly, still worked, although it only received three channels.

Spike had lived in a crypt at the cemetery before he had been imprisoned in a dark and dirty cell underneath Sunnydale. For him, Room 212 of the Hotel Hyperion was stylish living.

Angel sat on the side of Spike's bed, wondering whether he should wake the other vampire or let him sleep. He'd warmed up a cup of pig's blood in the microwave downstairs. He dipped his fingers in the blood and then used it to wet Spike's lips, which were dry and cracked.

"Come on, William," he coaxed. "Try to drink a little. Just a drop."

Wesley, standing in the doorway, cleared his throat. Angel turned around.

"The Host says that he knows someone who can help Spike," Wesley said. ''He`s named Dr. Dhaliwal. The only problem is that the Host thinks that he might not be pure human. He said something about his eyes. He thinks he`s part Gaurog."

"Gaurog?"

"A demon of humanoid appearance, not especially violent although untrustworthy. The species is sexually dimorphic. Males are large, muscular and have thick tails covered by plates of hide which can be used as clubs. Females are much smaller, graceful and willowy, with elegant tails that are covered in a fine soft down. Gaurog females are notorious for seducing human males, after which their outraged male relatives show up to demand compensation."

"So you're afraid this doctor is some kind of fraud because he might be part Gaurog?" Angel asked.

Wesley shook his head. "No. His reputation is excellent. I'm concerned, however, that Spike's chip might not prevent him from harming someone who is not a pure-blooded human."

"The shape that he's in right now," Angel said, "Spike couldn't hurt a fly, let alone a Gaurog demon."

"Still..." Wesley said.

"I'll stay in the room when Dr. Dhaliwal is doing his examination to make sure that Spike doesn't attack him," Angel said, turning away from Wesley.

The former Watcher had been dismissed. He stood in the doorway for a moment longer, but Angel's attention was entirely focussed on trying to get Spike to eat. Frowning, Wesley went downstairs to join the others.

Angel had insisted on staying in the room. He had not let the doctor see his patient alone. He'd argued that Spike was too dangerous, which was ridiculous. Dhaliwal's bodyguard could handle any trouble that came up, but such incidents seldom happened, despite the nature of Dhaliwal's patients. Even demons did not normally attack those who were tending to their wounds. Angel stood in the doorway, too far away to do any good if Spike suddenly lunged at him. and looked at the wall. The vampire carefully averted his eyes from the examination, as if he were respecting Spike's privacy.

When he'd finished the examination, Dhaliwal pulled off his gloves. He looked around the dismal room – the bare stained mattress without a sheet or a pillow, the dim light that made a proper examination difficult, and the flimsy curtains that would let in the morning sunshine. He sniffed at the red liquid sitting in a cup on the battered chest of drawers.

"Pig's blood?" he asked, handing the cup to the Gaurog demon.

The demon took a sniff and nodded.

He looked over at Angel, who was now at Spike's bedside. As he watched, Angel leaned over Spike, whispering something that only Spike could hear. He placed his hand on top of the other vampire`s. The very picture of solicitude. The vampire with a soul comforting his wounded childe.

"Vampire families are the worst," Dr. Dhaliwal said to his bodyguard in badly accented Gauroghi."They combine all the worst traits of humanity and demonkind."

Dr. Rajinder Dhaliwal usually kept his emotions under strict control. However, he was feeling a surge of anger that was too powerful to be ignored. It wasn't because the vampire he was treating had been tortured; vampires and demons inflicted all sorts of grisly punishments on each other, and it was Dhaliwal's unpleasant job to stitch them back together afterwards. He was used to that.

He was angry because Angel had given him hope, and then taken that hope away from him. He'd planned to come up with some excuse to talk to Angel alone, without his Gaurog bodyguard/jailer present. He'd hoped that the vampire with a soul could solve his problems. However, seeing what Angel had done to Spike had made Dhaliwal change his mind. The doctor would never be able to trust the person who had purposefully inflicted this kind of pain on another. Such a brute could not handle his situation with the delicacy it required.

"Why did you do this?" he asked Angel. "What did he do? Did he cheat on you?"

"Spike and I aren`t a couple," Angel protested. He meant to tell the doctor that he was not the one who had tortured Spike but the doctor was in full spate and would not let his speak.

"You pour bleach down his throat, and then you ask me why you can't get him to swallow. He can't feed because he's hurt, and he can't heal because he's starving. What's the solution? We feed him intravenously. Human blood not pig's blood. "

"But... "

"I know. You're the good vampire. The one with a soul. No human blood passes your lips. Very commendable. However, this vampire is used to human blood and he'll heal more quickly if you feed him his normal diet.

I know a place where you can get human blood. They supply blood for ritual use. It's not medical quality, but it's ethically gathered. They pay the donors the same rate as the Red Cross, but they don't ask any questions about needle use, hepatitis, or unprotected sex. Caveat emptor. I'll give you the address.

Do you know how to set up an IV drip?"

Angel shook his head.

"Not difficult. I'll show you how."

"Where have you been keeping him? Not here. You know how I can tell? Those curtains are threadbare, and Spike is dehydrated. In his current state he's highly flammable. When the sun comes up, he'll go up like a stick of phosphorus. Put him in a room without windows, maybe underground, before he burns the place down. Back in whatever cage you had him in."

"I didn't..."

"Finally, no more buggery."

Angel must have gasped or made some kind of sound, because the doctor turned on him then, unleashing he full force of his anger on the vampire.

"You heard me. No buggery. Not till he heals...if he heals. He may need an operation. I couldn't examine him properly. Too painful and then his face started to change...what do you vampires call it?...he was vamping out. "

"Spike was...violated." Angel said.

"That`s what I said. I don`t like this kind of case. Demons killing and wounding their enemies I can understand...sort of...but why do you hurt the ones you care about?"

"I didn't hurt him," he said. "It was the Initiative."

The doctor looked at Angel. He wasn`t angry any more. He just looked sad and defeated.

"I've been around your kind too much. I can almost understand. You have a soul, but there's a demon inside you too, and you have to keep him quiet. "

"If you do it again, I'll still come, because I'm the only doctor treating demons and vampires in the Los Angeles area who does house calls and I feel a certain responsibility to my patients. But I'll charge you double, and my fees are already steep. So don't do it again."

"Honestly, it wasn't me," Angel repeated.

Dr. Dhaliwal nodded, although it was clear that he didn't believe him.

"I'll send you your bill by the mail. Pay it promptly. I work for Wolfram and Hart, and you don't want to have to deal with our collection agency."


	5. Duties and Obligations

Angel escorted Dr. Dhaliwal and his Gaurog bodyguard to the door of the hotel. He was rehearsing the procedure for inserting an IV drip. Angel had been too embarrassed to admit that he was a bit squeamish about needles. In Spike's fraught state, he figured that he only had one chance to do it right before Spike went into full vampire mode.

Gunn and Cordelia had gone home, but Wesley had lingered, waiting for a chance to speak to Angel.

"So what did the doctor say?"

"The Initiative poured bleach down his throat. What sort of valuable scientific data do you think they get from that? Riley Finn better stay out of my sight," he said. "Buffy's corn-fed, all-American boyfriend has a lot to answer for."

"I won't attempt to justify the Initiative's methods. They may have been over-zealous, but they are our allies in the fight to protect the innocent from demonkind "

"I'm not sure that fighting demons is all that they were up to," Angel said. "That facility was too elaborate to just be a prison for demons. It must have been hugely expensive to construct and operate. I think that there was something else going on there."

He pulled out the address that Dr. Dhaliwal had given him, and then took out his wallet, removing all the cash he had with him. He handed the money and the address to Wesley.

"The place at this address sells human blood for magical rituals. I'd like you to go there tomorrow morning and get some blood. Take Cordy with you. She's good at haggling; maybe she can get us a discount."

"You're feeding Spike human blood?"

"It's what the doctor says he needs," Angel said. "He said to feed him intravenously. Have you ever set up an IV drip?"

"My Watcher's training did include some basic medical training," Wesley said.

"Good. Dr. Dhaliwal left me the equipment and gave me some instructions, but I've never done it myself. You can do it first, and I'll watch you. Do you think you can stick around for a while? I'm going to get Spike cleaned up a bit first."

Wesley nodded. Angel was halfway up the stairs when Wesley found the courage to say what was on his mind.

"I understand that you may feel you have an obligation to protect Spike, but having him here does present certain difficulties."

"What difficulties? Spike's chipped, so he can't hurt anyone."

"It has not escaped my notice that you have a certain...understandable...fondness for him."

"Get to the point, Wesley. Are you worried that being around Spike is going to be a bad influence on me? You should know me better than that."

"That is not what I'm worried about. What concerns me is that since you've rescued Spike, your mood has lightened. You don't seem to be as brooding and morose. One moment of perfect happiness is all that it takes for Angelus to return."

Angel laughed.

"I've just been too busy to put in my regular brooding hours.

I guess a moment of perfect happiness with Spike could seem plausible to you, since you don't know him. I promise you that once Spike gets his voice back, you'll see what a ridiculous idea that is."

Angel returned to Room 212 carrying a large towel, washcloth, soap, shampoo and conditioner. He placed the supplies on the bed next to Spike. HIs examination had exhausted the vampire. He was sleeping and Angel had to shake him to get him to open his eyes.

"We'll just get you cleaned up and then we'll move you to another room," Angel said in a falsely cheery tone.

Spike gave him a sharp glance; he didn't appreciate being spoken to as if he were a child. Just because he was physically weak didn't mean he'd regressed to infancy.

The liquid that came out of the hotel room's tap was more rust than water, and Angel let it run for a while until it cleared. While the tub filled, he took off his coat and shirt, to prevent them from getting wet.

Spike was incapable of doing much to assist as Angel undressed him. Angel removed his ill-fitting sweatpants (noting that Xander had been too cheap to spring for a pair of underpants) and struggled to get him out of his t-shirt. Then he carried Spike into the other room and put him in the bath tub.

The marks of months of torture were clearly visible on Spike's milk-white skin. There were scars, and old wounds that had almost healed, and newer wounds on top of them. Then there were the wounds that must had been inflected on him when Spike had been left alone to die in the dark, when all of his energy had gone to staying alive, and those wounds hadn't healed at all. They were still fresh and painful.

Angel's touch was delicate; Spike's skin was stretched tight over his bones. His skin seemed paper-thin as if any rough handling might make it tear. He didn't want to open any wounds or cause Spike pain. However, Spike hadn't bathed in months and grime was embedded under his skin and caked beneath his nails. It would take more than one good, hot bath to get him clean.

Spike seemed to enjoy having his hair washed, so Angel lingered a bit on this task, massaging his scalp and running his fingers though his grand-childe's hair. He was rewarded by the hint of a smile on the Spike's face.

Then Angel scooped Spike up, getting a fair amount of water down the front of his pants, and wrapped him up in the towel.

"Feels good to be clean," he said, earning himself another sharp look from Spike.

He didn't bother dressing him in Xander's thrift store finds: the sweatpants were the wrong size and the t-shirt was too much bother. Instead, he dressed Spike in his own shirt, which had buttons and was a lot easier to manage. It was almost long enough to serve as a nightshirt.

Angel didn't use the rickety elevator. He carried Spike down the flight of stairs to the lobby. To Wesley's horrified eyes they looked like the cover of a romance paperback. Angel was, of course, the shirtless hero, while Spike, with his long curly hair and (slightly blood-spattered) white nightshirt, played the part of his swooning bride-to-be.

Angel took Spike to his apartment, which was in the basement of the hotel. He laid him down on the couch while he went into the bedroom to change the sheets on his bed. Wesley followed him in.

"He'll be sleeping in your bed, then?"

"More room for the IV pole here than by the couch."

"So you'll be taking the couch then."

Angel looked at his employee.

"My sleeping arrangements are none of your business."

"Unfortunately, the prospect of Angelus returning makes your sleeping arrangements my business, as awkward and uncomfortable as that is."

Angel glowered, but Wesley stood his ground, certain of where his duty lay.

"Aside from the fact that Spike and I have never been interested in each other, he can hardly stay awake for more than thirty seconds at a time. What exactly do you think is going to happen?

Have you ever heard of dormancy, Wesley? In one of your Watcher texts?"

Wesley shook his head.

"Dormancy is the living death. It happens when a vampire shuts down, closes in on himself and withdraws from the world entirely. William's so close, Wesley. I can see how oblivion tempts him. He could go down so deep that I won't be able to pull him back up again.

Feeling someone's arms around him while he sleeps could make all the difference. Just knowing that someone cares. So, yes, Wesley, Spike and I will be sharing a bed. Any objections?"

"I'm sorry that raising this matter appears to have upset you," Wesley said stiffly. "That was never my intention."

Angel took a deep breath, calming himself..Getting into an argument with Wesley was the last thing he needed or wanted.

"No harm done," he said. "Now, I'll get Spike and you can show me how to set up an IV."

Wesley had been stiff and formal. He'd set up the IV quickly and efficiently, explaining each step to Angel with admirable clarity. Angel knew that the ex-Watcher was hiding his hurt feelings beneath all that formality, and that it would be up to him to bridge the awkwardness that now separated them. He'd have to take him out for a pub crawl, get him a houseplant, or bake him a batch of cookies. Something like that. Bridge-building would have to wait for another day, however.

Angel turned on the television at the foot of his bed, turning the sound off and the subtitles on. Then he put in a videotape of the latest episode of CSI:Miami, took off his shoes, and slipped under the covers next to Spike. Careful not to jar the arm attached to the IV, he put his arms around the sleeping vampire's shoulders and pulled him close, until Spike's head was resting on his shoulders.

"A leanbh," he whispered.

Then he settled back to watch Horatio Crane solve one of Miami's most puzzling crimes.


	6. Domesticity

For every move, there was a counter-move. Balance maintained. Symmetry. Yin and Yang.

Spike had imagined this moment ever since he first heard the word 'Slayer". He couldn't help smiling. It was not the usual toothy snarl of a cornered vampire or even the sick, twisted grin of a vampire contemplating a kill. The Slayer found it disquieting: that look of joy on the face of vampire. Taking advantage of her momentary distraction, Spike tried to sweep her off her feet, but she was too quick for him. The vampire laughed.

"Good move," Spike said, congratulating her, as if this were only a friendly game of chess.

She couldn't understand the words, but she caught the tone of voice. Spike could see the anger flash in her dark eyes for a second, but it was mercilessly suppressed. The Slayer didn't allow herself any emotion. She was fighting for her life.

Spike was fighting for his life, too, but the stakes weren't as high for him. For vampires, what passes for life always ends violently – and a stake through the heart during battle was one of the happier endings.

The Slayer moved forward, feinting a blow to Spike's right so that Spike would have to turn left, exposing his heart. She wasn't quite fast enough that time, and Spike jumped back just as she raised the stake to strike him.

And then he slipped in a pool of blood and muddy water.

A thought from nowhere filled Spike's head – Where did that puddle come from? That wasn't there before – and then he was on his back.

The Slayer was on him in an instant. She kneeled over him, raising the stake high above her head. Spike was still smiling, still laughing, even as she lifted the stake, ready to drive it downward through his sternum into his cold, dead heart. Win or lose, live or die, this was glorious. This was what he lived for.

The whining voice in his head complained – But that isn't what happened!

Then suddenly he wasn't in China anymore. China had been a dream. Or perhaps an hallucination. At this point, dreams and hallucinations were hard to tell apart. If his eyes were shut, he was dreaming; if they were open he was hallucinating. In total darkness, he couldn't tell the difference without touching his eyelids to check, and it hurt too much to move.

Spike was in his cell, naked and alone. He was where he has always been, where he always will be, at least until the Big One comes and the whole of UC Sunnydale lands on top of him, squashing him as flat as a pancake.

Bring on the Big One.

 _Two Weeks Later_

The sheets were smooth against his skin. They must have been freshly washed; he could still smell the detergent. It had a pleasant, inoffensive smell, not too flowery. The clock radio provided just enough light to see by. It was nine-thirty a.m., apparently, and that big lump under the covers next to him was presumably Angel. He could feel where the mattress sloped down, bearing the sleeping vampire's weight. The silence was almost total. Angel's apartment was underground (just like Spike's cell), so he couldn't hear any traffic. And of course, Angel was a vampire so he didn't snore or even breathe while he's sleeping. A sleeping vampire was pretty hard to distinguish from a corpse, actually. The room was this quiet because it was _supposed_ to be quiet.

Angel's Los Angeles apartment seemed real, but then Beijing had seemed just as real, and so had Prague and New York and Dublin...until suddenly they weren't. There was a strong possibility that all of this was a comforting illusion manufactured by his own mind: the cool sheets, the weight of Angel's sleeping body next to his own, the red digits now telling him that was 9:31 a.m.

He could reach over and wake Angel, ask him if it was real, and Angel would tell him the truth even in a dream because he was a Champion for justice and goodness and all that. But he'd look at Spike the way he used to look at Dru.

"Are you real?" was a crazy person's question.

Spike stared at the ceiling. He was spinning his wheels, going nowhere. So what if this was all a dream? Did it even matter?

He needed some distraction from his thoughts. Grimacing with pain, Spike sat up. He waited a few seconds, steeling himself, before he pulled himself upright, grabbing the IV pole for balance. It was only four or five steps to the wall, and after that it was easy. With on hand against the wall and the other clutching the IV pole, he made it to the bedroom door. He rested a few seconds, before opening it and going into Angel's living room.

Everything in Angel's apartment was either black leather or gleaming metal; it was all super manly in a way that Spike considered suspicious. Against the far wall was a big tank of tropical fish, brightly lit, and yes it was full of angelfish, in honour of you know who. (Whether he called himself Angel or Angelus, Spike's grand-sire had never been humble.) Only a few more steps before Spike could collapse on to Angel's couch. There were leather-covered buttons on the couch that dug into his back when he lay down, but Spike was too exhausted to sit up properly.

Another few seconds to rest and then Spike picked up the remote from the coffee table. It was the kind with dozens of buttons labelled with obscure abbreviations, and it took him a moment to find the one labelled PWR. He couldn't figure out which combination of buttons would allow him to change the channel, but what was on was fine. It was an old Bugs Bunny cartoon, and he hadn't seen the rascally rabbit for years.

Noise and colour and movement – just what he craved. He watched the images on the screen, not bothering to try to make sense of it, until he finally fell asleep.

Wesley looked over the papers that Willow had faxed him. It told him little that he did not already know. The only interesting thing he had noted were a few intriguing mentions of "Adam", but whether Adam was a person or the code name for some military project he could not tell. Willow had enlisted the help of several fellow hackers to infiltrate the Initiative's files, but no one had been able to find any more information about Adam or even confirmation that the project (or person) existed. It was possible that nothing about Adam had ever been entered into any military database, and the only place where information existed was in the inaccessible lower level of the Sunnydale facility.

Gunn was cleaning their weapons and checking supplies, while Cordy was catching up on the invoices.

"What are throat pastilles?" Cordy asked.

"Cough drops," Wesley said.

"Okay. Why didn't he just write cough drops? Nail varnish?"

"Even I know that one," Gunn said. "That's nail polish."

"Okay, smartie. What about Lucozade?"

Gunn was stumped.

"I don't think you have Lucozade in America. Something like Gatorade would be the nearest equivalent, I expect." Wesley said.

"Doing a crossword puzzle?" Gunn asked.

"No, I'm reading Spike's shopping list."

"You're doing the vamp's shopping?"

"I took him some copies of Soap Opera Digest and People so he could catch up on what he missed while he was in prison, and he gave me this list."

"Because celebrity gossip is the most important thing he missed," Gunn said.

"He's sick," Cordy said, " People read gossip magazines and watch Oprah when they're sick. "

"Let me see this list," Wesley said, rising from his seat and walking over to Cordelia.

"He's got better handwriting then you'd think," Cordy said, "and he can spell. I was surprised."

"When Spike was a young man, there were no computers or typewriters, so a good, legible hand was a marketable asset."

The list was quite lengthy, and included toiletries (black nail varnish, numerous hair care products), clothing (Doc Martins; shirts and pants specified by brand, style and size; underwear; socks) and even food (ice cream to soothe his sour throat).

"Petty cash won't cover this," he said.

"No kidding," Cordy said. "Petty cash barely covers a bar of soap for the washroom."

"Give the list to Angel," Wesley said. "Spike is his houseguest. He has nothing to do with Angel Investigations."

Angel walked in, holding a cup of microwaved pig's blood in his hand.

"Morning, everyone. It is still morning, right?"

"For another fifteen minutes," Cordy said. "Here, Spike gave me his shopping list." She handed Angel Spike's list.

"This is out of line," Angel said. "I'm not buying Spike a whole new wardrobe, and I've got plenty of hair care products. He can use mine, as long as he asks me first, and he doesn't use too much, and he follows the directions."

"So basically, no touching your hair care products," Gunn said.

"I'm not buying him peroxide," Angel said. "I like his real hair. What's wrong with light brown curls? Makes him look like a hobbit. That's good, right? Hobbits are cool right now."

"I have a feeling that hobbit is not the look he's going for," Cordy said.

"How is Spike?" Wesley asked, his tone carefully neutral.

"He made it all the way to the living room by himself," Angel said proudly. "Of course, he was tired out after that. I had to carry him back to bed."

"It's just that the documents Willow sent have raised a few questions that Spike might be able to answer."

"He still can't talk."

"But he can write, as this list proves."

"I won't have him cross-examined, Wesley. He's not ready."

"Perhaps he could just write down an account of what happened and what he knows about the facility. I'm particularly interested in anything he can tell me about something or someone called Adam."

"I'll ask him," Angel said, "but if he says no, I won't push. He's...fragile."

His staff members looked at him incredulously. The idea of a fragile vampire was ridiculous. Vampires were as tough as old boots, as they all knew from personal experience. They weren't traumatized; they inflicted trauma on others.

"Without Dru to look after," Angel said, "he just seems kind of lost. And he can't stand the quiet. Since he can't talk, he's always got the tv going or the radio on, usually both at the same time. Drives me crazy."

"I can see that ," Cordy said. "Brooding in silence is more your kind of your thing."

Angel nodded.

"We don't even like the same tv shows. I was watching CSI Miami, and every time Horatio Crane took of his sunglasses, Spike would just look at me..."

Wesley was uncomfortable with the turn the conversation had taken. It all sounded so cozy, so _domestic._

"To get back to business," Wesley said, "Gunn was mentioning a possible new client."

"Yeah, this guy's got ghosts," Gunn said. "Exorcisms aren't our usual stock in trade but these are mean ghosts. They don't just hide in the closet making spooky noises; they throw things around. Kitchen knives, small appliances, that sort of thing. Someone could get hurt."

Whatever personal life the team members had was put aside. Angel Investigations was in business.


	7. Paying Up

Although the ghost was banished in the end, the exorcism could not be called an absolute success.

While Wesley chanted the spell that would end the spectre's existence, Gunn and Cordy did their best to protect him from a barrage of kitchenware. Angel pressed forward, dodging a flying casserole dish. He carried a cross in front of him, his hand protected from burning by an oven mitt. Wesley ducked as a cleaver embedded itself in the wall behind his head, but his voice did not falter. He only had one more sentence to go.

As Wesley was intoning the final few syllables, the poltergeist chose to leave the mortal realm rather than be destroyed. However, it could not resist one final petulant gesture of defiance. As it departed, it released an explosion of ectoplasm. Angel, who had been closest to the peevish ghost, was the worst hit. He was covered from head to toe. Gunn and Cordy were splattered, while Wesley, furthest back, was almost entirely untouched.

Their client had been furious. Dodging the odd kitchen knife had been an annoyance. A living room knee-deep in ectoplasm was a disaster. The carpet was ruined and so were the drapes. If Angel Investigations had the temerity to send him a bill, he'd sue them.

The investigators, who had bravely faced a rampaging poltergeist, wilted under the force of the homeowner's righteous fury. Wesley meekly handed him the business card of a cleaning crew that specialized in cleaning up after violent crimes, floods and fires.

"This is why we don't do exorcisms," Angel said, as they walked towards Gunn's truck.

The enraged client hadn't even let the investigators use his washroom to clean up. Like a snail, Angel left a trail of slime behind him.

Gunn was prepared for emergencies. He kept a towel on the front seat of his pick-up He wiped away the spatters of goo from his clothes and skin, and then handed the towel to Cordy.

"Nobody covered in ectoplasm gets into my vehicle," he said.

He inspected Cordy under the streetlight and pointed out a spot she had missed on the toe of her shoe. After he was sure she was perfectly clean, he unlocked the passenger side door and let her into the cab of the truck. He went around and got in on the driver's side.

"What about me?" Angel asked.

"Wesley will take you on the back on his motorcycle," Gunn said.

Wesley shook his head. That was not going to happen.

"How am I supposed to get home then?" Angel asked.

"Through the sewers," Cordy suggested. "There must be a storm drain around here somewhere."

"Wait," Angel pleaded, as Gunn pulled out with Wesley following. He cursed under his breath.

It took more than two hours for Angel to make his way back to the Hyperion Hotel. By the time he arrived, he was in a thoroughly bad mood. Spike's glee at the sight of his grand-sire dripping in noxious goo did nothing to improve it. Angel walked past him without a word, heading straight for the bathroom, where he stripped off his clothes and stood under the shower until the water ran cold.

Still feeling vaguely sticky, Angel dried himself off and put on a bathrobe. He wasn't sure what to do with his ectoplasm-soaked clothes, so he just put threw them into the shower stall. He could deal with that problem later. His clothes had left a pool of goo on the bathroom floor, so he got sponge from under the sink to clean it up.

When Angel opened the bathroom door, Spike was waiting for him. Angel ignored him, but Spike followed him into the bedroom. Spike stood in the doorway smirking, obviously waiting for Angel to tell him how he had come to be covered in ectoplasm. Angel had almost forgotten how irritating Spike could be. Spike took a few more steps into the room, supported by his IV pole, and then collapsed on to the bed. He looked up at Angel expectantly, like a spoiled child demanding a bedtime story.

"The exorcism didn't go exactly as planned."

Spike laughed. Then he winced. Laughing hurt.

"I'm getting dressed. How about giving me some privacy?" Angel said, as he grabbed socks and underwear from his dresser drawer. He went to the closet and pulled out a pair of pants and a white shirt.

Spike, Darla, Dru and Angelus had lived together as a family for decades, and vampires are not modest creatures. Spike had seen Angelus naked more times than he could count, so this request amused him. However, he obediently put his hands over his eyes and turned away.

"I didn't mean shut your eyes," Angel said, "I meant get out."

He pulled Spike to his feet and half-dragged, half-carried him out of the room. He deposited Spike, still holding the IV pole tightly, on the other side of the bedroom door and closed it.

When Angel emerged, fully dressed, Spike was sitting on the couch watching an infomercial. He was wearing one of Angel's dress shirts, now hopelessly wrinkled, and the novelty socks (red reindeer against a green background) that Cordy had given Angel as a joke Christmas gift. Spike really needed a shave. To Angel, he still looked like a hobbit, but one with disgraceful habits and no work ethic – Bilbo Baggins's scapegrace nephew come to cadge a pinch of tobacco and a place to sleep for the night.

Spike didn't look up when Angel entered. He was sulking. He continued to ignore him when Angel sat down next to him on the couch.

"Cordy gave me the list you made," Angel said. "Recuing you from the Initiative does not mean that I'm responsible for feeding and clothing you. If you want those things, you're going to have to work for them. "

Spike looked at him in astonishment. Angel owned an entire hotel in downtown Los Angeles. It was a dusty and decrepit place crammed to the rafters with ghosts, but it was _Los Angeles real estate_ , and yet he begrudged Spike the cost of shoes, underwear and soap. Vampires are evil creatures, soaked in sin, but the love of money is a human vice. Angel had obviously been hanging around mortals too much.

While Angel talked about the difficulties of making a living as a small businessman and the value of honest toil, Spike couldn't say a word. He just had to listen to Dru's sire mouthing platitudes. Not having a voice was extremely frustrating.

"You can work for Angel Investigations for a while, just until you get back on your feet and pay off your debt. That's if I can get Wesley on board, of course."

Spike spotted a pad of notepaper and a pen by the telephone. He pulled himself up out of the sofa and headed towards it. He scribbled a message and then held it up for Angel to read: _How am I supposed to fight evil barefoot? I'm not a bleeding_ _ninja_ _!_

"Do ninjas fight in their bare feet?" Angel asked. "I think they wear slippers."

Spike growled at him, which really hurt his damaged throat. Angel pretended he hadn't heard him.

"I'm sure we can scrape up something for you to wear. You and Wesley are about the same size; maybe he has some hand-me-downs you could wear. If not, I'm willing to advance you enough to buy a few things at Wal-Mart. You can pay me back out of your wages."

Wal-Mart! Spike might have lived in an abandoned crypt and scavenged back alleys for furniture, but he'd always made a point of presenting himself well. He was a scion of the House of Archaeus, and he had an image to maintain. Lord Percy Percy's cast-offs and cheap Wal-Mart knock-offs were not who he was.

Spike scribbled furiously on the notepad. Angel looked over his shoulder.

"Disparaging my Irish heritage, my character, and my clothes sense is not going to convince me to shell out my hard-earned money on peroxide and hair gel, William."

 _Call me SPIKE_.

"I'll call you whatever I want to, A leanbh," Angel said.

He sat down next to Spike, picked up the remote, and clicked through the channels until he found an episode of Murder, She Wrote. Their brief argument had exhausted Spike's limited reserve of energy. Half-way through the episode, Spike fell asleep, so Angel picked him up and carried him to bed, dragging the IV pole behind him.

Spike opened his eyes when Angel crawled into bed beside him a few hours later.

"Still angry, Spike?" he asked.

Slightly mollified because Angel had called him Spike, the younger vampire shook his head.

"Good. I've got a favour to ask you. Wesley and I would like you to write down everything you remember about the Facility, especially anything to do with someone or something called Adam. If you don't think you're up to it yet, just let me know. It can wait a few days until you're a bit stronger."

Now or later. Not doing it all was apparently not an option. Seeing Spike's hesitation, Angel tried to reassure him.

"If there are things that happened to you...things they did to you...that you don't want Wesley to know about, I can leave those bits out when I show it to Wesley."

He reached over and gently brushed a stray curl from Spike's face so that he could look into his eyes. Angel radiated earnestness and sincerity.

Pouring on the old Irish charm, Spike thought cynically. Still he'd promised Angel obedience, and he knew that every act of kindness from his grand-sire always came with a price tag attached. If the cost of being rescued from the Initiative was sharing every detail of his pain and humiliation with Angel and his favorite ex-Watcher, he'd just have to grin and pay up.

Spike nodded his agreement.

"Good boy," Angel said, just as if Spike were his pet poodle.

Then he moved closer. Angel put an arm around Spike's shoulder and whispered Irish words into his ear. Spike had no idea what he was saying, but it sounded pretty. He fell asleep almost immediately.


	8. The Toughest: Spike's Story

I'd been playing poker with Clem and his mates and I'd won. Clem and his mates play for kittens, so this is where I'd put in some kind of clever pun about winning the kitty, if I weren't too knackered to bother. I'd won back me stake, a marmalade cat with the heart of a lion, and three other not-as-good kittens.

I'm sure Clem was hoping I`d say "Thanks for the evening, my good chap, and in appreciation for your wonderful hospitality, please have all the kittens I have won." He knows I've never acquired a taste for cat – the fur gets caught in me fangs. However, I didn't do that, since I have a mate who would take them in trade. Instead, I borrowed a basket to carry the kittens in and left.

I'd had a bit to drink that night. More than a bit. Could be I play poker better when I've had a few.

Even though a basket of kittens looks so cute on the card you send to your gran on her birthday, a basket is not actually a very practical means of transporting kittens. My marmalade kitten escaped early on, and I couldn't catch him or I'd lose all the others. I'd already decided I was going to keep him and sell the others, so I wasn't too happy about that. Never had a pet before because Dru would have tortured and killed it when I wasn't looking. Who says a vampire's pet has to be a hellhound or a slavering wolf? At least a cat's better than tropical fish.

I know that Wesley's rolling his eyes at this point and saying under his breath, "Hurry up and bring on the old ultra-violence! When's Spike going to get beaten up?" Don't fret; that bit's coming up.

Me mate had some of those little bottles of booze they give you on airplanes. I got two little vodkas and a peppermint schnapps for the three kittens I had left. I drank the vodkas on the way home, so by then I was well and truly pissed.

Stopped to watch Angel's lady love offing a vamp on the way home. I wouldn't describe Buffy's fighting style as poetry in motion, but she gets the job done. She's a concise fighter, not showy... but she's got no gift for the snappy one-liner. She should leave that to the Scoobies.

Anyway, it was while I was watching her, and thinking about whether I should have the schnapps now or save it for later, that I was surrounded by uniformed soldier boys. I was ready to fight, but they had a taser and pretty soon I was writhing on the ground, unable to control me muscles. They dragged me off to the Facility, tasering me a few more times on the way, every time it looked like I might be getting control of me body. Then one of them gave me a shot, and I lost consciousness.

Woke up chained to a hospital trolley with Riley grinning over me. I recognized him because seen him a few times around town with Buffy. Always thought he was too good to be true.

Next to Riley was an older woman. I heard Riley call her Dr Walsh. She wasn't wearing a uniform like the rest of them. She was in hospital scrubs, and she seemed to be in charge.

"Good," she said. "He's coming out of the anaesthesia. We'll wait a few minutes."

I was still pretty out of it, but not quite so much as I was pretending.

Then she stood well back and nodded to Riley. He undid the restraints, and in a second I was up and headed for the door. Riley was expecting that, so he tried to sucker punch me, but I was too quick for him. I was going to rip out his bleeding throat, but even before I moved - just as I thought of attacking him - I was on the floor. A thunderbolt in me head, like the worst migraine you've ever had. The pain was excruciating. Worse than the taser. Walsh and Riley stood over me. Grinning. Triumphant.

I know Wesley is going to want names and dates, and he isn't going to be satisfied with anything else. Well, too bad, Wesley. I was stuck underground, where I couldn't tell day from night, and the Initiative guys aren't regular army. None of them wore dog tags or had their names stitched on their pockets. Any one of them could have been Adam. (Insert your own 'I wouldn't know him from Adam' joke here.)

I'm not going to bother describing the cellblock that they took me to, because you've seen it. Me and a bunch of lame vamps – the wimpy, stupid kind that flock to the hellmouth and that last about three or four days before Buffy dusts them. The Initiative didn't waste any chips on them. They were lab rats. So was I, of course, but I was an _expensive_ lab rat, because of the experimental chip in my brain, so they kept me alive when they dissected the others. I heard Walsh talking with one of her assistants. She was wondering whether they'd be able to recover the chip if they killed me, or whether it would turn to dust when I died, like me clothes. They didn't want to take the chance of destroying that chip.

What sort of tests did they do on us? There was an acid test where they discovered that acid burns vampires. One where they found that you can't drown a vampire, but you can freeze him in a block of ice and then defrost him. A test where they crushed vampires under heavy weights to see how much they could lift. However, their specialty was pain. They were very interested in how much pain a vampire could tolerate compared to a human. Even my wimpy cellmates could endure more pain than the toughest of the Initiative's soldiers. I'm not sure whether it hurts any less for vampires than it does for normal humans, but we don't have heart attacks or strokes and we take a lot longer to break psychologically. One of the guards told me that his theory was that demons and vampires were built tough to withstand an eternity in the hell dimensions. We aren`t allowed to escape our just punishment by dying or by going crazy. His theory sounds as good as any, though I don't know how you'd test it scientifically.

Dr. Walsh oversaw all the experiments, though sometimes she had assistants do the actual work. I never saw Riley there.

The guards were not supposed to talk to the prisoners, but one of the guards would talk to me. I was chipped so I was safe, and he was bored. Also, I think he had a bit of a crush on me. He told me I had a cute accent, which is not something that one straight bloke says to another.

One day, he told me that some of the Initiative's soldiers had been caught in an ambush and killed. There were even rumors that Dr. Walsh was dead. The mood in the Facility was ugly, and who knew what might happen. He told me to look after myself and be careful, and I nodded, even though we both knew that there was absolutely nothing I could do to protect meself.

We could hear them before we saw them. There were gunshots in the other cells – the ones that housed the demons. Humans yelling and demons screaming and howling. Pandemonium getting closer and closer. The guard who had the crush on me was off duty, and the one who was supposed to be watching the cellblock left his post. He did nothing to stop the Initiative soldiers who were running wild through the cells, slaughtering everything that they could see. He probably joined them.

Then the first of them got to the cellblock where the vampires were housed. He had a baseball bat in his hands – I guess he thought beating something to death was more fun than shooting it – and he used it to smash the video camera that hung above the door to the cellblock. His eyes glittered and he grinned in a way I'd only seen before in demons and vampires. I didn't know that plain ordinary humans could look that way.

Some of the stupid vamps were going up to the front of their cells, trying to reach him, trying to drag him back so they could bite and claw him, but that also put them in reach of his good old baseball bat. The doors in the cellblock were locked, and the Initiative soldier was trying to figure out to unlock them.

Then the lights were turned off for a second ant then on again, to capture everyone's attention, and the public address system came to life. I recognized the voice over the tannoy as Riley's. He was telling the rioters to put down their weapons. He told them that failure to comply immediately would result in severe disciplinary action. Isn't it annoying when you're saved by an enemy? I hate that.

The soldier took another look around the cellblock, looking at all the vamps he wasn't going to have a chance to dust. That's when he spotted me, and our eyes met for a second. He smiled and said "I'll be back", quoting that Arnold Schwarzenegger movie. (His feeble idea of wit.) Then he left.

No one ever came back to fix the broken video camera.

After that, things got worse. The centre could not hold. Anarchy was loosed upon the world, etc, etc. (Quote from a famous Irish poet. Angel can ask Wesley what it means.)

There were no more testing sessions, which led me to believe that the rumours of Dr. Walsh's death were true. The guards weren't as careful about not talking around the prisoners – probably because they knew we were all going to be killed soon anyway – and it was about this time that I first heard mention of Adam. The story was that Dr. Walsh had been killed by Adam or because of Adam. Still didn't know what or who Adam was, but I figured that Adam was a secret even from the guards.

Nobody thought to feed the lab rats when there were no more tests. The vampires in me cell were attacking each other in their hunger. Once in a while, my favorite guard would sneak me a cup or two of cow's blood or pig's blood. There are advantages to being as good-looking as I am.

What happened next is none of Wesley's business and doesn't have anything to do with Adam, so Angel cut this part out when you show this to him.

The soldier who broke the video camera came back. He came straight for me. He must have known about the chip, because he wasn't cautious at all. He knew I was harmless.

He beat me up first. He hit me in the stomach so I doubled up in pain. He kneed me and he hit me across the face, and then after he had hit me a few more times, I sank to the ground, so he could use his boots to soften me up a bit more.

He pulled down my trousers and my pants and he took me. It hurt like hell. The other vampires were watching, cheering him on. The bastards loved to see a proud son of the house of Archaeus brought down so low.

That was the first time a soldier came for me, but it wasn't the last. There were at least a dozen, maybe more, who came into my cell - but he was always the worst. He was the one who used the bleach, just before the lights went out. It was a warning – mafia style - to make sure I'd never tell anyone what he had done. He probably got that from a movie too. I guess he thought that if he killed me, he might get in trouble for destroying that expensive chip in my head, so he just tried to silence me instead.

He was a freckled-faced bloke with blue eyes. Always smiling. If I ever see him again, I'll kill him, even if it makes me head explode.

Wesley can read the rest.

What saved me from the frequent attacks of the Initiative's out-of-control soldiers was someone's bright idea to hold a kind of gladiatorial games among the surviving vampires and demons. The guards, who had turned a blind eye to their buddies' visits to me cell, suddenly became vigilant. I was one of the contestants, and any kind of interference would be nobbling the game.

Of course, the games would be a fight to death, but I was happy about that. If I died, I'd be killed in combat, not while being dissected by a mad scientist.

None of them had a very high opinion of me fighting abilities, since they'd only seen me doubled up on the floor with a migraine when I tried to defend meself. The few people who bet on me really cleaned up. I came in top of me weight class; then top among vampires. I had already beaten some of the small and mid-sized demons when the Facility finally closed down. I would have beaten them all. I'm the only one who is still alive, aren't I? Proves I'm the toughest.


	9. A Close Reading

Angel's work for the evening was done. He had a productive night tracking down a group of cultists who had been planning a grand and very bloody ceremony to appease Tepeyollotli, the earthquake god. The people intended to be human sacrifices had all been released, and the cultists were now in police custody, complaining loudly to anyone who would listen that their religious liberties had been violated.

Angel was carrying a small carton of orange sherbet, a present for Spike. Over the last few days, the wounded vampire's condition had improved markedly. Although he still slept a great deal, Angel no longer had the feeling that he emerged from sleep reluctantly and with great effort. Spike's throat was also healing. He had begun sipping liquids from a straw, and Angel had been thrilled that his grand-childe would no longer need an IV. (He still didn't like having anything to do with needles.) Spike could even talk a bit – although it caused him pain and he preferred to use a paper and pen.

He was still underweight and he tired easily, but Spike was not dehydrated any more and he no longer seemed to be at risk for dormancy. There was no need for him to share Angel's underground apartment. Angel intended to tell his temporary room-mate that he would be moving to his own room upstairs. The sherbet was intended to make it clear to Spike (who had always been too sensitive for his own good) that his eviction did not mean that Angel was rejecting him.

Usually Spike was waiting for him when he got off work, but that night he wasn't. The television in the bedroom was on, but when he opened the door, he saw that Spike was sound asleep. Angel's buoyant mood deflated slightly; he had wanted to share his success with his grand-childe.

He walked into the bedroom. Spike did not stir. Even asleep, he recognized his grand-sire's steps and knew that he presented no danger. Angel frowned as he turned off the television. He spent far too much time following Spike around, turning off the noise-making, electricity-consuming devices that his houseguest turned on, which was another good reason for asking Spike to leave.

Angel left the bedroom and went to put the orange sherbet in the empty freezer compartment of his refrigerator. He warmed a cup of pig's blood in the microwave and sat down in front of the living room television. On the coffee table, he had left a pen and a pad of ruled paper ready for Spike to write down his impressions of the Initiative's Sunnydale facility. So far, Spike hadn't even started, and Angel was becoming impatient. Perhaps he had been too lenient with Spike. The Londoner had always needed discipline, but Dru's attempts to rein him in had been inconsistent at best. With Dru and Spike, it had been hard to tell which one was sire.

The front page of the pad was now covered with doodles. Spike had drawn a number of stick figures – dozens of them – and they were busy climbing up the ruled lines as if they were the monkey bars in a children's playground. Some of them were doing chin-ups or hanging from the bars by their knees, others rested on their stomachs or their backs, taking a rest from their climb. At the top of the page there was a cartoon figure wearing the typical superhero outfit of boots, long underwear and cape. This figure was neatly labeled Captain Forehead. He was launching lightning bolts at the stick men climbing up towards him. One unlucky stick man had been pierced by a lightning bolt . He was falling, tumbling through the air, his little stick arms and legs remarkably expressive of his terror.

Captain Forehead was, of course, a caricature of Angel himself. Spike had wasted his time on this malicious scribble, when he could have been doing what he had promised – providing Angel Investigations with information on the Facility. Angel tore the sheet from the pad and wadded it up into a ball.

Underneath the doodle was Spike's neatly written account of his time in the custody of the Initiative.

Angel had known that Spike's time there had been traumatic. He'd seen the scars on his body. He'd known that his grand-childe had been raped; Dr. Dhaliwal had told him so. Still, there was something about seeing the words on the page in Spike's familiar hand-writing, that made his grand-childe's suffering seem more immediate and real.

Angel went upstairs to use the office photocopier. He made a copy of Spike's story, and then looked around for a pair of scissors. He neatly cut out the paragraphs that Spike didn't want Wesley to see. Then he taped the remaining bits together, being careful to align the ruled lines, so it would not be obvious that the document had been altered. He photocopied the bowdlerized version and put it in an office. He wrote "Confidential" on the front of the envelope and put in Wesley's mail slot.

Focusing on this task had helped numb Angel's emotions. Deep inside he could feel his rage against those who had hurt Spike, and his desire to make them pay for what he had done. This fierce rage, however, had nothing to do with the Champion he had chosen to become, and he attempted, with only partial success, to smother it. He told himself that his purpose was to help the helpless, and he had done that – he had rescued William. Revenge and retribution belonged to Angelus.

Angel went back down to his apartment. He sat on the couch and picked up the cup of cooling pig's blood. His hand was shaking slightly.

He decided that he could wait a few more days before asking Spike to move to a different room. He'd give him a little more time. Their current cramped arrangement was probably just as uncomfortable for him. Spike might even decide for himself that it was time to find his own place without Angel having to push him away.

He looked up to see Spike standing in the doorway to the bedroom. He was wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. His feet were bare, and his hair was uncombed. Spike looked nervous.

"Sorry," he said in a raspy voice. "Dozed off."

Spike looked down at the coffee table, noticing the balled-up wad of paper and the blank sheet of paper on the top of the pad of paper. Spike eyed his grand-sire warily. Angel patted the seat of the couch, and Spike sat down next to him. Angel could see from the set of his shoulders that Spike was tense, anticipating a possible attack.

"So you've read it," Spike said, each word an effort.

Angel nodded. He hesitated, torn between a need to comfort William and a concern that any open expression of sympathy might shatter the other vampire's fragile self-control. William would hate to appear weak in front of his grand-sire.

"I took out the parts you didn't want Wesley to read." Angel kept the tone of his voice even and neutral.

Spike nodded. Angel reached for the television remote, turning the channel to a documentary about orcas. They watched the program in silence for a few moments. Then Angel tentatively reached over to put his arm on Spike's shoulder. Angel could feel the tension drain from Spike's body. Spike gave a little sigh of relief and leaned in closer. .

"I'm so proud of you. You showed them how strong you are. You beat them all."

Angel avoided looking at Spike. If there were tears in his eyes, Spike would not want his grand-sire to see them. Angel focused on the television screen, watching the antics of a playful young orca.

"Got you a present," Angel said lightly, as he ran his fingers through William's soft curls. "It's in the freezer."

Spike jumped up and headed for the apartment's tiny kitchen.

"It's not ice cream," he said, disappointed.

"Ice cream's too rich for you. It would upset your stomach. Try the sherbet. It's from a little Italian grocery store that Cordy found. She says it's the best in the city."

Spike came back with the carton and two spoons. He gave one of the spoons to Angel. Unlike Spike, Angel seldom ate human food, but he indulged his grand-childe. He took a spoonful. It was delicious, sweet and cold, like frozen sunshine. Angel wondered for a moment why he had for so long avoided the simple pleasure of taste. He had settled for warmed-over pig's blood when there was so much to savour in the world.

Wesley unlocked the front door of the Hyperion Hotel. He bent down to pick up a cardboard box. It carried in a box of clothes that he no longer wore. They were the typical tweedy garb of a Watcher. They no longer suited the person he had become. He would be happy to see Spike dressed his old cast-offs, looking like the naive twit that Wesley had once been.

He dumped the box on the floor of the office and went to his desk. He had come in early go through a pile of auction catalogues. Wesley had heard rumours that a magical gem called the Eye of Koronath would soon be put up for sale. It was possible that whoever currently had possession of the stone was unaware of its properties, so Wesley was checking not only those auction houses which specialized in magical items but also their more conventional rivals.

However, he put aside this task when he saw the envelope in his in tray.

As he started to read, Wesley's first reaction was impatience. Why all the superfluous details about kittens and poker games? Cynically, he decided that this part of his narrative was Spike's self-serving attempt to make himself seem more sympathetic. However, the vampire's ruthlessness could not be fully hidden no matter how hard the tried: while he wrote about his affection for one kitten, he freely admitted that he had sold three others to someone who would slaughter them for food or as a ritual offering.

Wesley could spot no obvious lies in his account of his time at the Facility. However, none of the information he had provided was of any use. He did not describe the experiments performed on him in sufficient detail, and the only people he named were Riley and Dr. Walsh. They already knew of Riley's involvement, and Dr. Walsh was (conveniently) dead. He wouldn't have expected a complete roster, but Spike should have been able to supply a few useful names.

At the very least, Spike would have known the name of the guard who had been foolishly infatuated with him. Spike was far too clever to have missed taking advantage of such an obvious opportunity. The vampire would have uncovered the name of his jailor and then used it frequently. He might even have christened him with one of his clever little nicknames. Addressing the guard by name would help forge a false sense of connection and intimacy between them that the vampire could then exploit. Therefore, Spike must have _chosen_ not to supply the guard's name. What other potentially useful pieces of information had he deliberately omitted?

Wesley paid little attention to the barbs that Spike aimed at him, but he was offended by his insults directed at Angel. Angel had saved his unworthy life, and Spike rewarded him by implying that he was ignorant and unlettered. Expressing gratitude to the person who had saved him would have been more appropriate, but of course that would have gone against his nature as a vampire.

Wesley made copies of Spike's story and put them in the mail slots for Gunn and Cordy.

It was clear to Wesley that Spike could not be trusted, and that he had nothing useful to offer Angel Investigations.


	10. First Day at Work

Spike opened the door to the second-floor broom closet and found that it was already occupied by a ghost. Spike wondered for a second whether the ghost haunted the broom closet because it had died there or because the Hotel Hyperion was so crammed with otherworldly tenants that this was the only place available.

The ghost was not the knife-throwing, ectoplasm-splattering kind. It was simply a lingering presence, neither benign nor malevolent. Spike didn't want any trouble that might alert the people downstairs. He nodded politely to her; he got the sense that the ghost was or had been female.

"Be out of your hair in a minute, pet," he said.

He lay down on the dusty floor of the broom closet. From here, he could hear everything said in Angel's office almost as well as if he were in the room. It was better than lurking outside the door – less chance of discovery.

"A chip is not the same as having a soul," Wesley was saying. "It would be more accurate to think of it as a muzzle."

Thank you, Wesley, for comparing me to a vicious dog, Spike thought.

He could feel the ghost coming closer, although she seemed curious rather than hostile. Her curiosity was hardly surprising. After decades in a broom closet, the poor thing had to be bored. He felt a chill as a body even colder than his own pressed against his and yes, this ghost was definitely female.

"Not the time, love," Spike said quietly. "I'll come back another time and we'll snog like rabbits in the springtime, but for now I want to hear what they're saying."

"Spike has done everything I've asked of him," Angel said. "He's promised to follow my orders, and I can say from experience that Spike is very loyal."

Now I'm a sodding golden retriever, Spike thought, rolling his eyes.

"He also agreed to provide information on the Initiative when we asked," Angel added.

"None of which was useful," Wesley pointed out. "It just confirmed what we already knew."

"That's hardly his fault," Cordelia said. "Spike himself said he was basically a lab rat. A scientist doesn't tell a lab rat what's going on."

Spike frowned. Cordy had obviously read his account of his time in the Initiative. He'd never given permission for his account to be passed around the office. It was supposed to be private, read only by Angel and Wesley. Next thing, Angel would be posting the damned thing on his blog.

"If we kick Spike out," Gunn said, "that doesn't mean he disappears. What's he going to do if we don't take him in? Before he was a vampire, he was ...what? – some kind of poet? I mean he's still got to live, and he's got no marketable skills."

"That's hardly our concern," Wesley protested.

"Well, it will be if he becomes the leader of some gang of vampire jewelry thieves or whatever, so he can pay for blood," Cordy said.

Spike lost track of the conversation because the presence was becoming very insistent. A cold tongue was trying to force itself between his lips. Spike turned his head to get away from the ghost, and then he could feel her icy tongue licking his neck. It wasn't pleasant. It felt like someone dropping an ice cube down his shirt.

"Later, pet. I understand. Long time alone in a dark place; you want to touch someone, feel someone's skin against your own. Just be patient. They're almost done."

He could feel the presence back off a bit, sulking. Hardly his fault if some randy ghost got her feelings hurt.

"Spike's a good fighter and he could be a real asset to our team," Angel said.

"Or he could sell us all out to Wolfram and Hart," Gunn said, playing the devil's advocate.

"Angel Investigations can give him enemies to fight, a place to belong, and people to care about. Wolfram and Hart can't offer him that. All Wolfram and Hart can give him is money and power, and Spike doesn't care about those things."

Cordy spoke up, "We're supposed to be all about helping the helpless, and what's more helpless than a vampire who can't bite? I vote we let him in."

"Are we voting?" Wesley asked, "I didn't know we were voting."

"We're coming to a consensus," Angel said.

"Yeah, well, my consensus is that I could definitely use another fighter at my back," Gunn said. "From what you all say, Spike's got skills. As long as Angel keeps an eye on him to make sure that he doesn't get a chance to turn on us, I say we give him a try-out. Put him on probation."

"Are we agreed then?" Angel asked.

There was a murmur of agreement. Spike did not hear Wesley's voice among them.

Angel was waiting in the apartment when Spike entered.

"So who was with you in the closet?" Angel asked. He had known that Spike was overhead. His keen vampire hearing had caught every word that Spike had said.

"Some lady ghost," Spike said, shrugging. "She didn't give me her name. She probably doesn't remember it."

"What's it like having sex with a ghost?" Angel was curious.

"Wouldn't know," Spike said nonchalantly.

He sat down next to Angel. Spike reached into his pocket for a cigarette. Oh right, no pockets and no ciggies either. He was wearing sweatpants, a t-shirt and a cheap pair of running shoes from Wal-mart.

"So you let Cordelia read my story. Gunn too, I expect."

Angel nodded. He could have told him that it was Wesley who had given them copies and that he had been very angry when he found out about it. However, he didn't want to fuel the animosity growing between Spike and Wesley. It was better if Spike blamed him.

"Angel Investigations is a team," he said. "We don't keep secrets from each other."

"You should have asked me first," Spike said.

"You're right, and I'm sorry," he said. "So do you want to work for Angel Investigations?"

"Got no choice, do I? Not if I want to keep meself in ciggies and hair dye."

"Don't bleach your hair, Spike," Angel said. "I like it the way it is."

"Doesn't matter how you like it. It's how I like it."

"It's how Dru liked it," Angel said.

Spike gave him a sharp look, letting him know that Dru was off limits.

Spike's first job with Angel Investigations came that same evening. It sounded simple enough. Something was living in the basement of a convenience store. The owner had never glimpsed whatever might be there because every time he opened the door to the basement he was overcome by a feeling of dread and impending doom.

"A demon with some kind of psychic powers, obviously," said Wesley, "but I can't tell which type until we actually get there. So be prepared for anything."

Gunn handed Spike his weapon, and showed him how to use it. It fired flaming stakes, and was pretty cool, but Spike preferred hand to hand combat. Standing well back and just shooting at a target wasn't the same as going toe-to-toe.

The convenience store owner stood at the top of the stairs. He used the basement for storage and cautioned them to avoid damaging any of his stock. Angel flicked the light switch at the top of the stairs. Nothing happened. All of them could feel the sense of dread that the store owner had mentioned.

"Whatever's down there has already started to affect us," Wesley said. "We have to fight its influence. We must keep hold of what's real."

Spike could feel unwelcome thoughts creeping insidiously into his mind. They were not his thoughts, although they mimicked him perfectly.

I'm not really here, the demon said in Spike's voice. I'm in me cell, dreaming this. I'll never get out. I'm stuck here forever.

I'm not going to let anything drag me back there, Spike thought. He fired at a dim shape ahead of him. He must have hit it, for the demon let out a cry of rage. The light of the flaming stake had provided enough light for Wesley to get a glimpse of the beast.

"It's a Tu'avlok demon," he said. "It sends its psychic messages through sound at a frequency below the normal hearing range of humans or even vampires. If we get some superior noise-blocking headphones..."

"Do we have any of those?" Angel asked.

"No, but I'm sure that I could track some down." Wesley said.

"I'm not waiting," Spike said. "I want to kill it now."

The others nodded.

They advanced toward the beast. Spike could see it clearly now. It looked like...Drusilla. He blinked, and the deceptive vision disappeared. It wasn't Dru. It was Buffy. How could he have mixed them up? The image flickered in front of his eyes...first Dru, then Buffy. What was he thinking? He was attacking the people he loved. Spike faltered, holding his weapon limp in his hands.

"Be strong," Angel cried out, rallying his troops. "We are real. Nothing else is."

Spike shut his eyes for a moment, trying to block out the demon's cruel magic. Then he opened his eyes and moved forward into the gloom, Angel, Gunn, and Wesley at his side. He snarled, furious at the beast that had tried to take over his mind.

Dru stood before him. She was dressed in one of the long gowns she favoured.

"Is my pretty boy Angel`s pup now?" she said. "Are you wearing his collar instead of mine?"

"I'm nobody's dog," Spike said aloud.

Gunn looked at him.

"Hold it together, man," Gunn said. "Don't let the demon get to you."

Spike didn't hear him. All he heard was Dru's voice.

"Are you a stray then, my love? Belonging to no one at all? All alone, begging for scraps from passing strangers...Poor little stray. Better watch out, my sweet pup, or the dogcatcher will get you."

Dru laughed merrily. Then she was gone. Now, the Slayer stood before him, proud and strong. Buffy looked at him with the contempt that he deserved.

"How could you think that I could ever care about someone...something... like you? After I've known Angel...He's a true Champion. You think that I'd even look at William the pathetic, the bloody awful ...You disgust me."

"All together," Angel called out, raising his weapon.

Spike, blinking back tears, raised his weapon automatically and aimed at Buffy...no, Dru. He wouldn't let the demon affect him. He shut his eyes.

"Fire," Angel said.

Spike fired with the rest.

Spike's hand shook as he lit the cigarette from the pack that the grateful store owner had given him. The other members of Angel Investigations looked as shaky as he felt. He wondered what visions the Tu'avlok demon had sent them. Don't ask; don't tell.

"I think that went pretty well," Angel said.

"So how did you like your first day at work, Spike?" Gunn asked.

"I like it fine so far," he said, dropping his cigarette butt on the sidewalk and crushing it under his heel.

They split up into different vehicles to drive back to the Hotel. Spike was Angel's passenger. Angel drove a vintage convertible, well-maintained and polished to perfection.

"We should celebrate," Angel said. "A workplace outing to welcome our newest employee. It will raise office morale."

Spike turned on the radio and fiddled with the dial, trying to find a station playing a decent tune. He liked eighties music.

"We'll go to the Host's club, Caritas. You'll like it there. The Host welcomes everyone – he doesn't care if you're a demon or a demon hunter. It's neutral ground. And his bartender makes the best Seabreezes in L.A."

"I can't go out. Not wearing this tat," Spike said.

"Wesley brought in a whole box of clothes. I'm pretty sure you can find something that fits."

Spike made a face at the idea of wearing the Watcher's old clothes.

"Besides I'm saving me money," Spike said. Got a debt to pay, right?"

"My treat," Angel said. "Just don't tell the others. I can't afford to pick up _everyone's_ tab."


	11. Karaoke Night

Chapter Text

Angel and Spike were headed for Cordelia's apartment, where they would be picking up Cordelia and Gunn. Wesley had made his own arrangements and would meet them at Caritas.

Spike had tried to improve his appearance for the evening out, but his efforts hadn't paid off.

Spike had shaved, and Cordelia had trimmed his hair with the office scissors.

"I'm trying to keep it even," Cordelia had said, "but curly hair is kind of tricky. At least this will keep it out of your eyes."

Spike was wearing the least naff of Wesley's suits. It didn't fit – not properly. Decades ago, when Spike had worn suits instead of jeans, he'd never worn clothes off the rack. He'd had his suits hand-tailored, or at the very least altered to fit. And of course, he would never have considered wearing cheap, no-name running shoes with a suit if he hadn't been in desperate financial straits.

"I look a right Wally," Spike grumbled.

"Don't worry; nobody will be looking at you anyway."

"They'll all be looking at you," Spike said sarcastically.

Angel smiled. "I meant that they'll be watching the karaoke," he said, "but hey...I appreciate the compliment."

"Wasn't meant to be a compliment," Spike said, fiddling with his tie. "Do you think this is Wesley's old school tie? Damned if I'm going to wear a Watcher's school tie to a night club full of demons. I'll get lynched."

"Nobody lynches anyone at Caritas. Like I told you, it's a place where everyone is safe – humans, demons and vampires. The Host uses the latest, most secure magical protection spells."

Angel found a parking spot only half a block away from Cordelia's building. Angel got out of the convertible, and pressed the buzzer for Cordy's apartment. After a moment, Spike got out of the car and stood beside him.

"Hey, guys. We'll be right down," Gunn said through the intercom.

Two minutes later, Cordelia and Gunn came out the door. Cordelia was wearing a wig with long, straight black hair parted in the middle. She was wearing a suede coat with fringes and beadwork. Gunn wore a fake moustache, a colourful shirt with a wide collar, and a fur vest.

"Guess who we are!" Cordy challenged.

The two vampires exchanged puzzled glances.

"Sonny and Cher!" Cordy said. "Isn't it obvious? I mean you were around in the sixties, weren't you?"

"You do realize that Sonny Bono was a short, hairy Italian guy, right?" Angel asked.

"Okay, so Gunn isn't a dead ringer for Sonny, but they do have one thing in common," Cordelia said. "Neither of them can sing."

Gunn nodded, "I couldn't hit a note if my life depended on it, so we had to pick a song that I couldn't ruin. We experimented a little. Turns out our choices were "I've Got You, Babe" and "Mary Had a Little Lamb."

"But we're still going to win because we've got the three c's : costumes, choreography and confidence." Cordelia said.

Wesley had taken a banquette with a good view of the stage. He was holding it off against all comers when they arrived. Angel sat next to Wesley with Cordelia and Gunn next to him on the other side. Spike sat next to Angel. Wesley and Gunn ordered beer and Cordelia ordered a seabreeze. To everyone's surprise, Angel also ordered a seabreeze.

"Hey," he said defensively, "I can try new things once in a while."

The waiter told Spike that they did not carry human blood, because it aroused bad feelings among the human clientele. Spike ordered a Bloody Mary made with bull's blood instead of tomato juice.

Cordelia and Gunn were critiquing their competition. On the stage, a bird demon boy and human girl were performing "My Heart Will Go On" from Titanic. The demon boy even looked a bit like Leonardo DiCaprio (if Leonardo DiCaprio were covered in feathers). As the song ended, the girl picked up her partner and threw him spinning in the air, catching him just before he hit the ground. The crowd erupted in wild applause and Cordelia and Gunn looked at each other ruefully, recognizing that their chances of winning the evening's prize had diminished significantly.

While Cordy and Gunn discussed killer dance moves, Wesley and Angel talked about some mystical bauble that Wesley coveted.

"That Eye thing, "Spike said, "is total rubbish."

Wesley said, "The Eye of Koronath is not rubbish. It's a very powerful magical artefact that was once owned by Count Dracula himself. The story is that he lost it in a game of faro."

"Lost it on purpose," Spike said with a snort of contempt.

Wesley ignored him. "It has the power to transform the wearer into a hellhound. The amulet may be the source of the myth that vampires can transform themselves into wolves or bats. Dracula was said to use the Eye to hunt down his prey."

"Not bloody likely," Spike muttered.

"If you have anything constructive to add to this discussion, please do go on," Wesley said to Spike in his prissiest, most Watcherly voice, which he used expressly to irritate the vampire.

Spike said nothing. He'd let Wesley go ahead, track down the Eye of Koronath and then watch him suffer the consequences. It would be fun.

"I thought not," Wesley said.

Angel sighed, "Can't you two at least try to get along?"

"I'd like a real night off from work," Gunn said, "where nobody even mentions mystical amulets, demon invasions, or approaching apocalypses."

"Where we all get drunk on seabreezes and have fun," Cordy said in agreement. "Are any of you heroes brave enough to get on the stage and sing your little hearts out?"

"Come on," Gunn said, as his co-workers went silent. "I'm doing it and I can't even sing! I dare you."

"I double-dog dare you!" Cordy said.

Spike sang:

 _There is nothing fair in this world_

 _There is nothing safe in this world_

 _And there's nothing sure in this world_

 _And there's nothing pure in this world_

"Lamb chop can carry a tune," the Host said, sipping a seabreeze. He had taken the spot recently vacated by Spike.

"What are you picking up from him?" asked Wesley.

"He's a fool for love, but Angel knows that already, don't you cupcake?" the Host said. "He'd follow the one he loves to heaven or hell."

"Anything else?" Gunn asked

"He's at a crossroads and not sure which direction to go, whether to head for the light or back into the shadows. It depends where the person he loves is headed."

"So who's the person he loves?" Cordelia asked.

"This is where it gets complicated, sweetpea. His emotions are confused and I can't get a clear reading. "

"Can he be trusted?" Wesley asked, getting to the heart of the matter.

"The person he loves can trust him completely," the Host said. "Anyone else..." He shrugged his shoulders eloquently.

"And now, since I've done you a favour, it's time for you to repay me in kind. I want you to talk to Dr. Dhaliwal. Get him to tell you about whatever is bothering him. I've tried; Carlos has tried, and we've gotten nowhere. Seeing that glum face night after night really spoils the party atmosphere."

Angel glanced at the doctor, who was sitting at a table near the front, accompanied as usual by his bodyguard. For once, his glittering eyes were focused on the stage instead of his glass of whisky.

"He won't talk to me," Angel admitted. "He thinks I tortured Spike. However, he did mention that Spike might need a follow-up visit, just to check that he's healing properly."

"Do you think he might open up to Spike?" Gunn asked.

"It's worth a try, anyway," Angel said.

Spike returned to the table in a buoyant mood. His performance of Billy Idol's _White Wedding_ had gone over well. Angel introduced Spike to the Host.

"Alas, my little dumplings, duty calls," the Host said, getting to his feet. "A host must mingle."

A double-dog dare is a challenge that cannot be refused. Angel and Wesley teamed up to perform 'N Sync's _Bye, bye, bye._ Neither one of them put much life into the performance; their intent was simply to get it over with while avoiding humiliation. The audience response was equally tepid, but at least no one booed.

At last, it was time for Cordelia and Gunn. Though their singing was barely adequate, their dance moves made up for that. They were close to winning; Cordelia could feel it. All they needed was one last, big, audience-pleasing push. Cordelia decided to go all out and launched into one of her old cheerleader routines, leaving Gunn to improvise as best he could. Her body remembered all the old moves, even though she hadn't done them in years.

Gunn and Cordy won the evening's grand prize – a gift certificate for a massage at a local day spa. Cordelia was sure that a massage would be coming in handy soon; her muscles were already protesting the split she had done as her grand finale.

Angel had planned to drive everyone home, but he'd had a few too many seabreezes for that. He and Spike shared a taxi back to the Hyperion Hotel. The evening had been a success. Spike was relaxed, in a good mood, and more than a little drunk. Spike snuggled up against Angel. He wanted Angel to hold him in his arms; he wanted him to whisper pretty Irish words in his ear. And he wanted those signs of affection without having to be beaten nearly to death to get them. Emboldened by a few too many Bloody Marys, Spike put his arm around Angel's neck. He kissed him on the cheek, a soft touch, light as a feather.

Angel edged away.

"I'm in love with Buffy," he said.

"What's that got to do with anything?" Spike asked. He kissed him again.

"She's the only one I ever _could_ love."

"I don't care. Dru never really loved me either." Spike said with drunken honesty.

"You deserve someone who really loves you," Angel said. It was a trite and meaningless phrase, intended only to let Spike down gently.

"No, I don't," Spike said. "I'm a vampire. I deserve a stake through the heart."

Spike pressed his cold lips against Angel's. There was a moment of heartbreaking stillness, in which the whole world seemed to be holding its breath, and then Angel kissed him back.

"A leanbh," Angel said, pulling away from Spike's embrace. "What am I going to do with you?"


	12. The Machinations of the Undead

Angel paid the cab driver while Spike waited impatiently on the curb. Spike kept his head lowered, looking up at Angel through his lashes, playing shy. He followed Angel through the lobby of the Hyperion Hotel and down the stairs into Angel's apartment. Angel stopped in the doorway and leaned down slightly to kiss Spike lightly, barely brushing against his lips. A remote kiss, almost fatherly. Angel was keeping his options open, promising nothing.

"I'm going to take a shower," Angel said.

Only the half-open door to the bathroom let Spike know that it was an invitation.

Spike was still playing demure – pretending that he was William not Spike - so he only peeked at Angel through half-closed eyes. The vampire was beautiful, muscular, perfect in every detail, like a statue by Michelangelo brought to life.

Spike felt queasy. Spike was scarred, mutilated. Though his face was mercifully untouched, there was scarcely an inch of his body that hasn't been marked by the Initiative's cruel experiments. He wanted to see lust in Angel's eyes, not pity. He already had his pity. Pity wasn't doing him any good at all.

Spike waited until Angel stepped into the shower and closed the frosted glass behind him before he hastily undressed, leaving Wesley's fine suit crumpled on the floor.

"Close your eyes," Spike said desperately; hoping that this one time Angel would do as he asked.

Fortunately, Angel was humouring him. His eyes were shut. Spike kissed him, almost limp with relief and gratitude. His next kiss was warmer, more passionate, with a bit of bite to it, but the angle was awkward. The water from the shower was beating down on him, getting into his eyes and mouth, and Angel was so damned tall. How had the Slayer - a tiny, little thing - ever managed it? Maybe she stood on a footstool, or maybe they never kissed standing up?

"Keep your eyes shut," Spike said, managing to keep his voice light and teasing, "and I'll give you a nice surprise."

He kissed Angel on the collarbone, and then sent a trail of kisses down the length of his torso. He glanced up, making sure that Angel's eyes were still closed, before he dropped to his knees. If Angel opened his eyes and looked down, he'd see the length of Spike's back, still covered in livid scars. He was striped like a zebra.

Angel was already a little hard, just in anticipation. Not surprising, he'd been doing without sex for a long time. Spike knew exactly what to do, though it's been a very long time for him as well. The last time he'd performed this particular act had been in another century, when he'd been a pupil in a minor public school, small for his age and too damned pretty for his own good.

He touched Angel, looking at his manhood warily. His grand-sire was a lot bigger than any of the boys at school. Reminding himself that he couldn't choke – since he didn't breathe – Spike took him in his mouth. Angel growned. His eyelids fluttered but stayed closed. Spike's tension eased. Once Spike was a bit more relaxed, he found that his old skills were still in place. It was easy for him to find a rhythm that pleased his grand-sire.

Spike had never liked the taste of come, so he leaned back on his heels when Angel climaxed. He was spattered on his chest and face, but the water beating down on him washed it away. Angel's eyes were open now but unfocused, inward-looking. Spike got to his feet, kissed him quickly – always leave them wanting more – and stepped out of the shower. His grand-sire reached out for him but he was already gone.

Angel – still Angel, not Angelus – leaned back against the bathroom wall and let the shower spray beat against him. It was a criminal waste of water in drought-prone California but for once he didn't care.

He was still ensouled, of course. Whatever he felt for Spike was not the perfect soul-stealing happiness he felt with Buffy. Perfect can mean flawless. But, as Angel remembered from long-ago Latin lessons, perfect also describes an action that is already completed. Something done with. Over. Finished.

Buffy had been his destiny; Spike would be his choice.

Spike had found out about Angel's plans for him the night before. He'd seen Gunn heading up the staircase to the second floor It occurred to him that Gunn, who had no visible love life, might be paying a visit to the sex-starved ghost in the broom closet, since he couldn't think of any other reason for going up there. Curious, he'd followed him, but Gunn had headed straight for Room 212.

It turned out that Gunn had just gone upstairs to use the bathroom, since the office facilities were temporarily out of order. (All of the plumbing in the Hotel Hyperion was very temperamental.) Spike had stood in the doorway and stared.

The room had been transformed. All the old battered furniture was still there, and the ancient television and broken air conditioner. However, all the surfaces were now dust-free and the carpet had been vacuumed. Instead of a bare mattress, there were pillows and sheets and even a bedspread, and they all matched. The ugly orange curtains were gone. The new curtains were just as ugly, but they were thick enough to effectively block out the sun's rays.

Gunn came out of the bathroom and spotted Spike.

"Oops, " he said, "you weren't supposed to see this until after the party. It was meant to be a surprise. So how do you like your new room?"

Spike looked at the four bare walls. No refrigerator stocked with fresh pig's blood. No microwave. No stereo. No tropical fish to keep him company. No pictures to look at, No books or magazines.

He turned on the television. The screen took forever to warm up but there was, eventually, a wobbly picture on the screen, so snow-covered that it was hard to tell exactly what he was watching. And then the television's old cathode ray tube died, and the screen went blank.

"Bloody hell," Spike whispered.

A room of his own, without distractions, in which there was nothing to do but think and reflect and be himself.

He wanted to throw the dead television across the room. He wanted to trash the hotel room in proper rock and roll style.

He didn't. He smiled.

"I like it fine," he said.

Inside his own head, Spike was screaming, tossing the bloody place, smashing all the crap furniture into kindling. After he'd spent an entire month alone in darkness, with nothing but his own twisted imaginings to keep him company...after total isolation had come close to driving him mad... Angel had chosen this for him. This blankness! Even in his rage, Spike conceded that Angel probably had no idea how cruel he was being. His grand-sire just didn't have the imagination.

Spike knew that Angel planned to surprise him with his own room after the party. So he'd had to hurry things along much faster than he wanted. He would come to Angel practically gift-wrapped - mind and body and long-lost soul all for Angel - and Angel would not be able to resist such a fine present. After he'd given himself to him totally, even Angel, emotionally clueless as he was, wouldn't have the heart to exile him to Room 212. He'd be Angel's acknowledged consort; his place in Angel's life would be secure.

Soaking wet, Spike waited for Angel, who seemed to be taking his bloody time. Spike still felt mildly nauseous, but his nausea had nothing to do with the half dozen bloody Marys that he had knocked back. He was suppressing the voice in his head which was telling him – no, shouting at him – that this was all much too soon and that he was nowhere near ready for what was going to happen next.

He reminded himself that this was his choice, that everything was going exactly according to plan, and forced a smile onto his face when Angel made his grand entrance.

Angel dried himself off thoroughly, taking his time, and then followed the trail of Spike's wet footprints into the bedroom. The other vampire was already in bed. He'd gone to bed soaking wet, so the sheets cling to his body.

At this point, despite the enticing picture his grand-childe made, Angel would have liked nothing better than to go straight to sleep, but Angel knew that some kind of reciprocity was required. Just taking his pleasure and ignoring his bedmate's needs was something that he might have done when he was mortal, back when his name had been Liam, but Angel was better than Liam.

Angel got into bed and took Spike in his arms. He knew that the vampire liked being cuddled and held. He kissed him gently. Then he buried his head into Spike's neck and, morphing into vamp face, he bit, but not too hard, just enough to break the skin. He lapped up the blood – relishing its taste – and kissed Spike again, this time smearing his lips with his own blood.

Angel could feel the demon within him stir, but Angel yanked down hard on the chains that kept him bound. .The vampire reminded himself that Spike had been hurt and though he was bouncing back, he was not healed yet. Not entirely. When Spike was strong enough, he'd loosen those chains a little and let his demon play ...but not yet. He had to be careful.

His hands found the other vampire's cock under the sheets and Spike's eyes opened wide. Angel stroked him, still kissing him. He crooned Irish words that sounded sweet but could mean anything at all.

"I want to have you, my sweet William, my beautiful childe," Angel said in English. "Of course, I do, but not tonight. I wasn't expecting...I'm not prepared."

He was lying. It was true that he wanted Spike, but he restrained himself because he was afraid of hurting him. He had remembered Dr. Dhaliwal's instructions.

Spike knew that he was lying. He knew for a fact that there was a full bottle of lube in the bedside drawer.

Part of Spike was relieved – hugely relieved – but he was worried as well. Didn't Angel want him? He doubted that one quick blow job would be enough to earn him a place in Angel's bed.

"However," Angel said, "I can do for you what you were kind enough to do for me."

Angel was ready to dive under the sheets, but Spike kissed him fiercely to stop him. He couldn't let Angel see his scars; they'd remind him that Spike was damaged. He wasn't innocent like William nor heroic like Buffy. Spike pulled Angel down on top of him, pressing his body against the other vampire's.

"No,' he said. "I want to look into your eyes when I come."

Angel was happy to indulge the vampire who adored him, who would follow him to heaven or to hell.


	13. The Eye of Koronath

Cordelia Chase was taking advantage of a rare day off. She lay on a chaise longue on her tiny balcony. An glass of white wine and the latest summer block-buster (both untouched) were set on a tiny plastic table next to her. Cordy was wearing a home-made facial mask concocted from yogurt, oatmeal and avocado. Thin slices of cucumber covered her eyes. The balcony door was open so that she could hear the radio playing from inside her apartment. It was playing Pink's _Get the Party Started_. A sheet of paper floated across the room. Cordelia smiled as her ghostly room-mate Dennis made the paper dance to the beat of the music. She dozed in the warmth of the California sun. She could almost imagine herself poolside at the Chateau Marmont.

Cordelia woke up when Dennis tickled her with a feather duster. Annoyed, she sat up, letting the slices of cucumber fall on to her lap. Dennis drifted away from the balcony and across the living room. He turned up the volume on the radio. The disc jockey and his sidekick were discussing a news items. There were reports of sighting of a strange animal in the Hollywood hills. One of the witnesses had described it as a "huge mutant wolf", while another thought it was a grizzly bear. They both agreed that the creature had red eyes, sharp yellow teeth, and smelled like rotten eggs.

""How much do you want to bet that this mutant wolf is Wesley's hellhound? " Cordellia said to Dennis. "Someone must be using that Eye of Whatever-It-Is."

Cordelia dialed Wesley on her cellphone to find out whether he had heard the news, but the ex-Watcher wasn't answering. She tried the office of Angel Investigations, hoping that Angel would pick up, but she just got the answering machine. She tried Angel's personal cellphone but just got an out-of-service area notice. She wasn't surprised. Angel was probably in his below-ground apartment, and the reception there was terrible. Charles Gunn was the only person she was able to reach. He agreed to meet her at the Hyperion Hotel.

Cordelia arrived first. Angel wasn't in the office, so she went down the stairs to his apartment. She knocked at his door and then went in without waiting for an answer.

Spike and Angel were entangled on the living room couch. Embarrassed, Cordelia was backing out of the room, when Spike spotted her. He grinned at her, not in the least discomfited at being caught snogging the boss. Angel turned around, and Cordelia saw that his lips were covered with blood. Their was a red mark on Spike's neck where he had been bitten.

Smoothly, Cordelia took out the stake that she always carried in her handbag. She was a Sunnydale girl and would no more leave home without a weapon than she would go out in public without lipstick.

"Just stay where you are, Angelus!" she said. "I've got a stake!"

"We can see that," Spike said. He blinked, shook his head in an effort to clear it, and sat up.

"I'm not Angelus," Angel said. "I'm still Angel."

Cordelia shook her head. "You can't fool me. It must have happened just the way Wesley said that it would. One moment of happiness and you've lost your soul."

"I haven't lost my soul. I couldn't experience true happiness without Buffy. I miss her every minute of every day. She's the other half of my heart."

Angel took a step toward Cordelia, stopping mid-stride when she raised the stake.

"Tell her I'm still Angel," he said to Spike.

"Wouldn't know," Spike said grumpily. "Angel or Angelus - they're both the same to me."

Listening to Angel prattle about his perfect love for perfect Buffy had spoiled Spike's mood. He got up from the couch and headed for the refrigerator where a plastic bag full of pig's blood was waiting for him.

"I'm nothing like Angelus!" Angel protested.

"Angel wouldn't bite! " Cordelia said.

Angel blushed. "I'm still a vampire even though I have a soul. Vampires can get a little ...bitey...when they're excited. It was entirely consensual."

"Present for Angel," Spike confirmed muzzily, as he got a coffee cup from the cupboard. "Body and blood... all for Angel. "

"How much blood did you take from him?" Cordelia glared at Angel accusingly.

"Hardly a drop," Angel protested. "He's just tired and hung-over."

Spike turned towards Cordelia and smiled wickedly. "Insatiable, he is. Wouldn't let me get a wink of sleep."

By the time Gunn arrived, Cordelia had put away her weapon.

"It said on the news that there's a giant wolf that was sighted in the Hollywood Hills area," Cordelia explained. "Going by witness's descriptions, it sounds like the hellhound Wesley was talking about."

Gunn said, "There have already been a couple of close calls. We need to get to it before it mauls somebody."

"I tried to call Wesley but he didn't answer his phone," Cordelia added. "Maybe he's gone hunting for it by himself."

Spike laughed. "Lord Percy Percy isn't off hunting the hellhound. He _is_ the hellhound."

Gunn said, "It can't be Wesley. Wesley wouldn't attack people."

Spike said, 'While he's wearing the amulet, Wesley isn't himself. He's a hellhound, thinking hellhound thoughts and doing hellhound things. If Mother Teresa put on the Eye of Koronath, she'd try to rip your heart out."

"How do you know so much about it?" Angel asked Spike.

"A bloke in a pub told me about it. He was an ex-Watcher like Wesley. He'd been drummed out for 'unsavory activities' which must have been pretty nasty since the average Watcher gets up to things that would make a Fia'vala demon blush.

Anyway, this bloke told me that the Eye of Koronath was a kind of sorcerer's intelligence test. If you're foolish enough to put the damned thing on, then you deserve what happens to you. There's even a warning right on it. There's an inscription on the back that says Cave Canem, Latin for beware of the dog.

He planned to track down the Eye and then send it to Watchers' headquarters. He said the folks in charge were arrogant and stupid, and that one of them would be bound to try it out. He was looking forward to the carnage.

Don't know if he ever actually did it."

"We have to reverse the transformation before Wesley hurts someone," Angel said.

"Or he gets picked up by the dogcatcher," Spike added. His frivolous comment earned him a stern look from his grand-sire.

"How do we do that?" Cordelia asked.

"Easy," Spike said. "Just remove the amulet from around his neck."

"That sounds like it could be dangerous," Cordelia said.

"Well, yeah," Spike said, "but that's what makes it fun."

Angel had a contact in the Los Angeles police who told him where the beast had last been sighted. Gunn and Cordelia headed out first to try to track down the hellhound. Spike and Angel would follow as soon as the sun went down.

The team met up in a ravine in the Hollywood Hills. The ravine served as a corridor for wildlife. The residents considered the coyotes living there a nuisance and a menace to their pets, but they were unaware of the other shyer animals who also shared their living space. From the bottom of the ravine, none of the surrounding houses could be seen. It was a bit of untamed wilderness a five-minute walk away from a bustling residential neighbourhood.

"The hellhound is in those bushes over there," Gunn whispered, pointing at a spot near the stream.

"Okay," Angel said quietly. "I'm going to circle around so I'm upwind of it. When I'm in position, you three start coming forward slowly."

Angel moved through the uneven terrain as swiftly and silently as a thought. The others made no particular effort to be quiet. Their intent was to distract the beast while Angel was sneaking up on it from behind.

The hellhound emerged from the bushes. The creature was powerfully built and far larger than any earthly dog. It was easily the size of a carthorse, tall enough to look Gunn in the eye. The beast growled - a powerful, low vibration that aroused a deep instinctual fear in all those who heard it. Angel's team resisted the urge to run away. Turning ones back on this creature would be suicidal.

Gunn and Cordy were armed only with mop handles to ward off the hellhound. They did not want to use any weapons that might hurt or even kill Wesley. Spike had no weapon at all.

The three of them stood still before the beast. Then Gunn stepped forward brandishing the mop handle in front of him. The hellhound watched him warily. It bit into the mop handle, its strong jaws splintering the wood. Spike and Cordelia took a step forward to stand at Gunn's side.

"That's it, beastie," Gunn said. "Keep your eyes on me."

Angel's white shirt and pale visage was dimly visible in the moonlight. He was closing in on the beast. They only had to keep the hellhound distracted for a few more seconds.

When Angel was only a few steps away, almost close enough to touch the beast, the hellhound made its move. It lunged at Gunn. Spike pushed Gunn aside so that the hellhound landed on him instead. The impact knocked Spike off his feet. He took the hellhound down with him. The vampire grappled with the furious animal. Deprived of its intended prey, the hellhound snarled in fury.

Then the dog opened its mouth, displaying sharp yellow teeth dripping with sulphurous saliva. Spike protected his face and neck with his arms. He kicked at the hound, wishing he was wearing his usual Doc Martins instead of flimsy Wal-mart sneakers. The hellhound bit into his forearm all the way down to the bone, while Cordy and Gunn tried to drive it away. The hellhound, focused on the kill, ignored their frantic blows.

With a grunt of effort, Spike managed to kick the hellhound away. He rolled up on to his knees and opened his arm wide, as if he were about to give the animal a hug. When the beast came at him, Spike reached around the animal's thick neck, trying to find the amulet hidden by its thick fur. The beast snapped at Spike, who leaned back to avoid its teeth.

"Damn it, Spike!" Angel yelled, as he attacked the hellhound from behind, "This was not what we planned!"

Avoiding the hound's lashing tail, Angel pulled the animal's head back, away from Spike. The beast growled, ready to take on both vampires at once.

Just then Spike's questing fingers found the necklace. Breaking the chain was impossible since its links had been magically forged. Spike had to undo the clasp, an annoyingly fiddly mechanism, while Angel wrestled with the hellhound. At last Spike managed to release the clasp. He removed the amulet and held it over his head triumphantly.

The hellhound disappeared, replaced by Wesley Wyndham-Price. The ex-Watcher was bruised but otherwise uninjured. When he learned what had happened, he was apologetic.

"At the Watchers' Academy we were taught always to have spotters around whenever we worked on a new spell or experimented with an unknown magical item," he said, "but when I held the Eye in my hands, I just couldn't resist trying it on.

I don't remember anything after that. Did I hurt anyone?"

"Not really. Just a few cuts and scrapes, nothing too serious," Spike said.

The bite on his forearm could probably do with a few stitches, but he could still move his fingers, so that was all right. Vampires don't fuss about minor injuries.

"Where is the amulet?" Wesley asked.

Spike handed it over to him. The Eye of Koronath was a muddy brown stone in a crudely-worked and rather tarnished setting.

"You were right," Wesley said, looking Spike in the eye. "It's cheap junk magic."

He dropped the amulet onto the ground and stepped on it, grinding the stone under his heel. There was a flash of light and a strong whiff of sulphur as the magic held in the stone was released.

"That's it?" Cordelia asked. "You don't have to throw it into a volcano or anything?"

"That's it," Wesley confirmed.

"All this could have been avoided if you had told Wesley what you knew about the Eye," Angel said, as he got into the driver's seat of his convertible.

"I did. I told him it was rubbish. Not my fault if he didn't listen to me," Spike protested.

"I warned you that I wouldn't let you undermine Angel Investigations."

"I haven't...I wouldn't... "

*You already have. You put people in danger so you could score points in your ridiculous feud with Wesley."

"I'm sorry," Spike said miserably.

"You're not. Vampires are incapable of feeling regret. You're just saying what you think I want to hear.

A leanbh, you're an excellent fighter, but I want you to be more. I want you to be a good person too. Maybe I'm asking too much. It's not even your fault. It's what you are."

"I can learn how to be good," Spike said.

Angel laughed mirthlessly, "I doubt it. Not without a soul. The most we can hope for is that you'll learn how to fake it so well that no one will be able to tell the difference."


	14. Guilty Pleasure

Angel's words hurt. Spike had been trying to please him, but nothing he did ever seemed to satisfy his grand-sire. Covertly, he looked at Angel through lowered lashes. The vampire was smiling away, nodding his head in time to the music of the car radio.

Spike should have known better by now. How many times did he have to learn the same lesson before it finally sunk in? Never give your heart away.

Spike vowed that he would be strong this time. He knew that he needed Angel. Some underlying sense of self-preservation told him that it would be very bad for him if he tried to make it on his own right now. Solitude could destroy him. However, Spike promised himself that he'd take from Angel what he needed. Then, as soon as someone or something better came along, he'd leave his grand-sire without a word. Just walk away. The way Angelus had once walked away from his family, more than a century ago.

As soon as the car stopped, Spike opened the door and almost sprinted to the hotel. Angel followed at a more leisurely pace. He noticed a trail of bloodstains on the hotel's faded carpet.

"Spike!" he called out.

No answer. The vampire followed the trail of blood across the lobby.

* * *

Spike was rummaging through the first aid kit that Angel kept in the cabinet beneath the bathroom sink. Bandages, scissors, tape, antiseptic ointment – what need did a vampire have for antiseptic ointment? – but no needle and thread.

"Bloody hell," he muttered.

Where would Angel keep a needle and thread? Spike's arm throbbed, making it difficult for him to concentrate. Blood had soaked through his shirt sleeve and was beginning to seep through his hand-me-down tweed coat.

Angel opened the door of the bathroom, which Spike had forgotten to lock. Spike was on his knees, putting everything back in the first aid kit. Angel loomed over him. Maybe he was hoping for a repeat of the bloody likely previous night's shower scene, Spike thought. Well, that wasn't going to happen.

"What are you looking for?" Angel asked.

"Needle and thread."

"Here," Angel said, going to the medicine cabinet and pulling out one of the little kits that the some hotels sometimes provide for their guests. (Needless to say, the Hyperion Hotel wasn't one of those hotels.)

Spike got up to his feet and turned his back to Angel, which ought to have been Angel's signal to leave, but Angel just stood there.

"Let me see your wound," Angel said.

"It's nothing. Just needs a few stitches. I can take care of it myself."

"No, you can't. It's your right arm. You can't sew left-handed."

* * *

Out of necessity, most vampires learn a little basic medicine. They can set a simple fracture or suture a wound. After all, a vampire can hardly go to the nearest e.r. when he is injured. Even the most sleep-deprived resident is likely to notice that his patient isn't breathing and doesn't have a heartbeat. On very rare occasions, Angel had sutured wounds in the past. He knew that he could do it; he just didn't like doing it. The idea of a needle entering flesh – whether his own or someone else's - made him feel sick and dizzy. There wasn't any traumatic childhood incident to explain why he felt that way. He just did.

Spike sat at the kitchen table. He'd rolled up the sleeve of his blood-stained shirt to expose the wound. He looked up at Angel with a dubious expression, sensing his grand-sire's unease.

"Stay still," Angel said, leaning over him.

"I _am_ still," Spike said. "It's your hand that's shaking."

"I don't like doing this," Angel confessed. "I hate anything to do with needles."

"Why?" Spike asked. "Poking holes into vampires is what you do. Usually you're using a stake instead of a needle, but it's the same thing really. Just a difference in scale. If you think of a needle as a really tiny metal stake.."

"Spike, would you please shut up?"

"I'm trying to distract you, " Spike said, "because needles make you nervous, right? But when you're annoyed with me, you don't feel nervous any more. Doing us both a favour. Your hand's shaking less already."

"Maybe I'm worried about hurting you," Angel said.

"Can't be that," Spike said, because you bit me a few hours ago, and that hurt, and you quite enjoyed it."

Angel said, "I wish I had some off that topical analgesic spray that doctors use. Maybe we could use an ice cube to numb the skin first?"

"Don't bother. I'm tough. I can handle pain."

"I know that, a leanbh," Angel said gently.

He went to the freezer section of his refrigerator. There wasn't any ice, but there was a half-empty carton of orange sherbet.

"Here," he said, giving the carton to Spike. "Hold that against your arm for a minute."

Angel shut his eyes for an instant just as the needle entered Spike's flesh. After the first suture, his queasiness abated and he was able to do the rest of the stitches without a problem. It wasn't terrific-looking stitchery, but it would do the job.

"I think I could have done it better left-handed," Spike said.

* * *

While Spike finished up the last of the sherbet, Angel went to the refrigerator, pulled out a bag of pig's blood, and poured some into a coffee cup. He microwaved it and then carried the cup of blood to the table. He sat down opposite Spike.

"Tomorrow's payday," he said. "I deducted some money for the clothing I bought you and some other expenses, but I didn't take it all off at once. I figured that you would want some walking-around money now. Gunn and Cordy have their wages directly deposited into their bank accounts, but I'll pay you in cash since you don't have a bank account. We can set the same thing up for you later after you get some fake i.d."

"So I'm still working here?" Spike asked.

"I didn't say you were fired, did I? You just have to try harder. I know that it will be difficult without a soul to point you in the right direction. The demon in you is going to try to drag you down, and you don't have a soul to lift you back up. The number one thing to remember is that Angel Investigations is a team and we all work together."

"But Wesley..."

Angel interrupted him, "I know that Wesley has his doubts about a soulless vampire being part of Angel Investigations. But you just prove his point, when you conceal valuable information from him. Don't let him get to you."

Spike nodded glumly. Angel sounded like the headmaster of his public school. He'd told William that he was too sensitive. Just take their teasing and pranks in good humour and the other boys will tire of it. They'll find other ways to amuse themselves and leave you alone. It hadn't worked – or at least hadn't worked the way the headmaster intended. The other boys had indeed found other ways to amuse themselves, but those ways hadn't involved leaving William alone.

"I've talked to you," Angel said. "When I get a chance, I'll have a private talk with Wesley. Let me deal with it.

We've caused so much innocent suffering over the years, we have to earn the right to atone for our sins. Wesley, Gunn and Cordelia are being incredibly generous just giving us a chance to try. I know you don't understand about having to pay for your sins. I know you _can't_ understand."

"So that's it then," Spike said, unable to hide his resentment. "You only care about the innocents. You don't care about me. You only care about people with freshly- laundered, pure-white souls."

"I care about you," his grand-sire said.

He clasped Spike's hand and brought it up to his lips for a kiss. He smiled and for a moment dour, tormented Angel was gone, replaced by the rakish, devil-may-care Irishman he had once been centuries ago.

"I probably shouldn't but I do. You're my guilty pleasure."

* * *

"I'm going to give you a special assignment," Angel said. "One where you can show everyone what an asset you are to Angel Investigations. You remember Dr. Dhaliwal – the doctor who examined you? He suggested that you might want to come in for a check-up, just to make sure that you're healing properly."

"I'm fine," Spike said. "I don't need to see a doctor."

"Spike, he said there could be rectal tearing or internal injuries from when they ...from what they did it you."

Angel glanced at his grand-childe to see how he was taking this. Spike's expression was closed off, giving away nothing.

They had never talked about Spike's time with the Initiative. Angel was, in many respects, a modern Californian who believed that talking about traumatic events could be therapeutic. But he was also familiar with an older set of values that said that the best way to deal with trauma was to kill those responsible. And their wives, their children and household pets. And also any other people you happened to meet on the way to your enemy's house. Closure for vampires only came when everyone who had taken part in or witnessed your pain and humiliation was dead.

"Dhaliwal's office is right in the Wolfram and Hart building, which gives us a great opportunity to get a look at their base of operations.

The Host said that he's been really glum and depressed lately. It could be girlfriend troubles or something else totally unrelated to Wolfram and Hart, but it could also be that he's unhappy working there. Dr. Dhaliwal might want to defect from the side of evil and join the good guys. You could get him to talk about what's bothering him. Convince him to let us help him."

"So how's that going to work?" Spike asked. "While he's got his hand up my arse, I'm supposed to strike up a conversation with him? 'By the way, if you're looking for someone to fight the big bad, here's our business card.'"

Angel nodded. "Exactly! It's called networking. Anya says it's the key to business success. I'll call Dr. Dhaliwal's office tomorrow and make an appointment.

In the meantime, you can take tomorrow off. Go shopping. Spend some of your pay. You can ask Cordy to come with you if you like. She knows where all the good store are."


End file.
